


The Downward Spiral

by AraniaArt, Kamiki



Series: Falling's Just Another Way to Fly [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Fic, Dehumanization, Demons, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Gang Rape, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, Lust, M/M, Male lubrication, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Occult, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pheromones, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Succubi & Incubi, Succubus!Bucky, Torture, Transformation, demon!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 103,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9200594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/pseuds/AraniaArt, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamiki/pseuds/Kamiki
Summary: After his fall from the train, Bucky Barnes awakens to find himself in the worst situation imaginable: recaptured by Hydra.Hydra, who is dead set on completing the demonic transformation that Bucky has been struggling with since he was captured the first time, and shape him into their obedient weapon.Bucky sure as hell isn't going to go down without a fight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the second fic in the "Falling's Just Another Way To Fly" Series! If you missed the first fic, Dragging You Down, in a nutshell, paralleled the events of CATFA except instead of a version of the super soldier serum tested on Bucky, a ritual was used by Hydra that slowly began changing him into a demon. 
> 
> This installment will cover not only how Bucky is turned into the obedient Winter Soldier, but a lot of the demon mythos I'm developing for the story. That being said, I’ll post a concise mythos separately later, and part 3 will be picking up from this fic’s equivalent of the events of CA:TWS. 
> 
> The tone of this fic is going to be most similar to chapter 19 of Dragging You Down [the gangbang in the alley where Bucky grew his tail], but pushing that bar further than that chapter did. If that chapter made you uncomfortable, you will probably not like this fic, as it will involve HTP, Noncon, and graphic depictions of Bucky’s psychological, physical and sexual abuse and torture to turn him into Hydra’s plaything and weapon. 
> 
> That being said, I kick things off pretty quick: so you can probably make a determination of whether or not you’re going to be comfortable with this fic as a whole based on the first chapter. 
> 
> ALTERNATIVELY, [a FULL SUMMARY of The Downward Spiral, Chapter by Chapter, is posted HERE](http://arania.kamiki.net/misc/fanfics/tdssummary.htm). 
> 
> So if you are enjoying Succubus!Bucky themes and want to see him back with Steve, you can skip “The Downward Spiral” and meet me back for the third installment, “Lifting You Up”, which will pick up from this series’ equivalent of Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

He never remembered the impact.  

But at the bottom of the chasm, consciousness ebbed and flowed through Bucky like elusive smoke.  An indescribable combination of numbness and agonizing pain warred with his senses.  Cold itself was a living thing set on consuming him with icy teeth while it lulled him to sleep.  When he opened his eyes, a whiteness so bright that it was painful assaulted him.  He felt so tired, his body heavy with exhaustion, yet so cold as if his blood itself was half-frozen slush crawling sluggishly through his veins.  

The telegraph… it was on his thigh… Maybe, if he could just reach it, then he could signal the others.  But when he tried to move his arm, he was rewarded with only a fresh flare of pain and a flash of red behind his eyes as consciousness left him again like a breath. 

*

Figures backlit against the bleak sun and snow crowded around him, murmuring in … Russian?  

Hope fluttered briefly through his heart, and then he was moving, being drug across the snow.  A smear of red… 

*

Pain – more excruciating than being shot or stabbed hit him like a live wire.  It felt like someone had wrenched out his heart.  

_Something’swrongsomething’swrongSteve’shurthe’shurthe’Sgonehe’SGONEHE’SGONE!!!_

His body sat bolt upright as a scream tore from his throat “STEVE!!!!!”

 _< “Why is he awake?  It is too soon!  Put him back under!  Now!”>_

This time he struggled against the hungry blackness, even though it was physically painful to be awake.  Something was wrong – something was _terribly_ wrong with Steve.  It felt like he had been ripped _out_ of him, it felt like… like… his thoughts grew sluggish and the clawing darkness was winning.  No, he had to get to him, he had to… had to… 

to…

*

The next time Bucky woke, the crawl to consciousness was agonizing.  His thoughts drifted in and out of a mire of nonsense, half-dreams and confused, conflicting memories.  The sleep in his veins threatened to pull him back under even as he fought to focus his delirious mind on forming even a basic sense of identity and location. But ultimately, it was the pain that collected his scattered thoughts.  Cold had bitten him down to the bone, every muscle in his body ached, his skin stung as if sensation had newly returned to cold-deadened flesh, and the blood slogged through his veins as if it carried with it a million tiny shards of glass.  

Voices carried on a conversation around him, but the sounds were swimmy, as if he were listening to them from under water.  

Every defensive impulse in his body wanted to sink back into blissful oblivion, but three facts assaulted him, flooding him with panic and banished the threat of sleep.  

1\. He had fallen impossibly far from the train.

2\. He should be dead.

3\. He wasn’t. 

Those realizations unleashed a flood of memory, confusion and worry in a chain reaction.  How was he still alive?  Who had brought him here?  Where was here?  Where was Steve?  How long had he been out?  

As he attempted to shift, every joint protested, feeling stiff and “C-cold…” Bucky’s voice cracked weakly.  The voices cut off sharply, replaced with the sound of footsteps.  

Whiteness filled him as his eyelids were drawn open and a light shone in his eyes.  Hot fingers pressed against the side of his throat, taking his pulse.  And when the spots faded and the room stopped swimming, the dark shapes began to coalesce into people.    

Two men stood over him, wearing Soviet military uniforms, and seemed to be checking his vitals as they removed an IV line from his forearm.  

“Lay back, do not struggle.  You are still very weak.”  One of them said with a thick accent.  

Relief flooded Bucky.  He was safe.  The Soviets – God bless the fuckin’ Soviets.  

He rested back against the table, forcing himself to concentrate on his surroundings to keep from slipping back into sleep.  Bleariness gradually resolved itself into a large, round room with high ceilings, concrete floors and ducts and piping running over the walls.  A cart with a tray of medical tools was parked to his right next to the IV stand.  And beyond that, a man in an officer’s uniform stood near a large metal chamber with a frosted glass door, speaking to another soldier wearing a red beret and writing in a clipboard.  A few signs in Cyrillic confirmed his identification of his saviors.  He could just make out a second level with grated catwalks and metal railings before the fuzziness of his vision obscured any further details.  

Bucky rested his eyes, processing.  The facility looked industrial: not a typical medical bay; definitely military.  Maybe there hadn’t been time to get him to a hospital.  

_Shit, had they seen??_ Panic flooded him anew as he looked down at himself.  

Thank God: he was dressed and he could still feel the bindings around his tail.  Medical restraints had been secured around his wrist and ankles, his blue peacoat had been opened and the sleeves removed to run the IV, and…

And…

The room spun.  His left arm: where the FUCK was his left arm?!  He could barely feel anything other than the bone-deep bite of cold that had numbed everything else, but how could he not have noticed he was _missing his fucking arm!?_

A mosaic of memories assaulted him: Mr. Gershwin from the old neighborhood who had come back from the Great War as less of a man in both body and mind.  Crippled beggars who sat on the street corners panhandling for pennies.  The whispers and pity for poor David Laskier, and how could he provide for his wife and son after he lost his hand while working in the pencil factory?

He must have been shouting, because suddenly the man in the officer’s uniform was beside him, placing a hand firmly against his chest.  

“It was too mangled.  We did what we could, but we could not save your arm.   It was not a pretty sight, I assure you.  We had to keep you under and we were concerned that the infection would spread to your blood, you see…”  Bucky forced himself to focus on the officer and his deep, commanding voice rather than the stump, trying to quell the hysteria that was threatening to send him over the edge.  

No, not just an officer: if he was remembering correctly, that silver star against the gold was the Soviet Major General insignia.  He didn’t look to be much older than his late thirties judging by his face, but had prematurely salt-and-pepper hair and flecks of grey in his thick goatee.  But most striking was his intensity: from his piercing dark eyes to the set of his square-jaw; his athletic physique and the way he held himself implied that he was much more than a desk-jockey.   
  
Nope.  Not good enough.  Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing down the bile in his throat and focusing on his breathing, despite the fact that taking deep breaths still felt like knives in his lungs.  

_Focus. Focus, you’re alive.  Your arm’s off, but you’re fucking alive, Bucky.  You’re fucking lucky is what you are to just be missing an arm after that fall that should have taken your life_.  _Maybe it should have taken it… what the fuck am I going to do now?  What use am I?  I couldn’t even die for Steve right.  What the hell am I going to do now?!_

_You’re in the hands of our allies, and you’re safe.  For now at least… what if they find out what I am?  How the hell am I going to get out of here before they do?  You gotta get your ass out of here, Buck, before they find out… No no, breathe, Bucky.  Panic isn’t going to do no one a bit of good.  Just… keep things under wraps and you can be on your way._

Bucky whet his lips, turning his head back to the general. 

“You have been healing quite well, however, Barnes, is it not?” He asked with a tap on Bucky’s dog tags. 

Bucky swallowed thickly, trying to even his voice, “Sounds like I owe you my life, but I know there’s a lot of folks probably worried and thinking the worst.  So, guess that means I’ll be on my way here soon, then, General…?”

“Ah, My apologies,” Was that a sardonic note in his voice?  Maybe just something in the accent.  “Aleksander Lukin.  And what is the rush, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky winced as he felt the first flush of heat in his groin as his body continued to thaw.  _That_.  That was the fucking rush.  He was hurt, bad, and that tended to lead to one hell of an uncomfortable situation.  

_Don’t panic.  Don’t think about your fucking arm.  Just put on the charm, thank the man, and try to get the fuck out of here before shit gets bad_.  

“No offense, General Lukin – quite the opposite in fact, but you gotta understand – nothing I hate more than being laid up in medical when I can be up and about.  Plus, no sense in tying up your beds and your doctors.”  

“Your recovery speed is quite impressive, Mr. Barnes.  Especially for a man who had a limb amputated and an extended period in stasis.” Lukin’s hand drifted over to the restraint around his right (his only, fuck) wrist, but instead of releasing him, he gave it an experimental tug.  And Bucky really, _really_ didn’t like the sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  

“You guys must have some real bang-up physicians here, General Lukin.  Though I really don’t think those restraints are necessary any more now that the procedure’s over…”  

Lukin continued, speaking over Bucky, “Not to mention, after a fall such as yours, most people would not have left behind anything recognizable to even scoop out of the snow.  Zola’s ritual has made you quite resilient!”  

The ice was back in Bucky’s veins.  How did he…?  No, no no no.  He was Soviet; they were their allies.  But the unwelcome reminder that Lord Thornally had been British chewed at him.  There had to be another explanation!  “I… what?” Bucky’s brows drew together.  

“There is no need to insult us both and play stupid, Mr. Barnes.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” Bucky protested.

“The SSR believed that they knew the extent of Hydra’s influence, but in truth, they only glimpsed a small part of it.” No no no!  Bucky tried to keep his thoughts from spiraling as what was quickly becoming a nightmare-made-real threatened to engulf him in useless panic. Yet still, a part of him detached as Lukin set in on what could only be described as a fucking _monologue.  “_ …Hydra is much larger, and much older, than the Red Skull would have people believe.  However, he did serve us well by drawing the attention away from some of our older and well-hidden cells.  And now with Schmidt out of the way, he will no longer be blocking our sunlight and we will flourish, stronger than before.”  His mouth twisted upwards as he patted Bucky’s cheek.  “And, apparently, some of the research he sponsored bore fruit.  Zola wasted so much of Hydra’s money on this project when I thought he should stick to the energy weapons. I spoke against it; perhaps I should not have been so hasty.”  
  
Anger burned through his fear.  “You’re Hydra…” Bucky growled, jerking at the restraints.  But between his stiff, cold-sapped muscles, the post-amputation shock, and the restraints being _much_ stronger than they appeared, he was held fast.  

Lukin snorted, “Even weakened as you are, you wish to fight me?  How charming.  I have heard tales of the exploits of you and your Captain America.  How ironic it is that Zola’s only success was not sent home after his capture, or locked up and studied, but there the whole time, fighting the war right in the spotlight.” 

Bucky’s blood boiled.  Whatever sedatives they’d had him hooked up to were working out of his system, leaving in its place a mounting hurt in his left shoulder, the ache of numerous cracked or broken ribs and vertebra, and the painful pins and needles of returning sensation everywhere else.

“Look, asshole, you’re fuckin’ mistaken!  You obviously know Zola was crazy as a bag of cats.  Like you said, he was wasting Hydra’s fucking money on bullshit projects!”  Bucky took another crack at denial.  This guy was Hydra, which made him a madman by definition, but from what he was saying it sounded like he wasn’t directly involved in Zola’s research.  Maybe if he could convince this guy that he was wrong, well, he wasn’t going to let him go, but maybe he wouldn’t think he was worth this level of effort.  Because if this guy did know what he had his hands on… no, don’t think about that – don’t think about what Hydra wanted to do with him.  Don’t think about that poor bastard in Prague.  Don’t think about Austria.  He couldn’t go back to that!  

“You know, I’m afraid that even I was skeptical about Zola’s claims to be able to channel ‘demonic’ energy through the tesseract at first… and yet, here you are.  I suppose even a broken clock is right twice a day.” 

“C’mon, ‘demonic energy’?  You know how insane that sounds!” Bucky spluttered, his tail coiling tightly underneath him.  And yet even having already heard it once before, those words sent a swell of fresh horror lancing through him… and reverberating in his cock with a distinct pulse.  His pain began to grow more distant in his mind as the flush of arousal started to take its place.  Things were rapidly going from bad to even fucking worse.  

Lukin finally seemed to hear what Bucky was saying, and had the gall to fucking _laugh_.  “Oh so you know nothing about that?  I find that hard to believe when you have _this:_ ”  

Bucky froze in helpless panic as General Lukin unceremoniously jerked his trousers down, revealing the tail strapped along his thigh.  “You may have been able to keep this secret from your military, but did you really think that you could hide something like this from us, Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky squirmed, flushing with humiliation and unwanted arousal.  What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?  Lukin had called his bluff and he had no cards left to play.  The un-fucking-pleasant reality of the situation settled over him as Bucky began to realize just how screwed he was.  Did anyone know he was here?  Did anyone even know he was still alive?  “Think a tail is evidence of fucking _demons?_ You’re just as insane as Zola!  You buy that line of bullshit and I’ve got some oceanfront property in Indiana to sell you!”  

Lukin snorted as he cut the ties with a scalpel from the tray and picked up Bucky’s tail, causing it to coil reflexively around his hand.  An involuntary shudder passed over Bucky; it was so fucking sensitive – which was just one of many reasons Bucky tried to avoid handling it when he could.  And now, in his building arousal, it was even more so.  “It is a rather intriguing development, I must admit – though I can only imagine how humiliating it must be for you to have grown a tail like an animal.  Unless you are actually trying to insinuate that you had this beforehand?”    

“If anyone’s an animal or a demon here, it’s you sadistic bastards.  I’d rather have a damn tail than whatever malfunction you’ve got in your head to make you join Hydra!”  
  
Lukin ran a finger gingerly down the length of his tail as he inspected it, and Bucky was barely able to bite his lip to keep himself from gasping.  He hated that it felt good, and he didn’t want to give them the fucking satisfaction of that realization.  But that didn’t stop his cock from twitching, a small spot of moisture darkening the front of his olive boxers.  “And that is not a normal reaction for someone injured and captured, is it Mr. Barnes?” Lukin gloated.  

“Fuck you” Bucky spat, beyond the point of caring about coming up with an original comeback.

“So eager,” Lukin mused with a smirk, “Don’t worry, Mr. Barnes, we’ll get there soon enough.”

 _SHIT!  He knew, he fucking knew!_ Cold fear and hot desire crashed paradoxically over Bucky in waves.  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Bucky blustered.  “You just fucking told me you never subscribed to Zola’s batshit proposal.”

“You are right, Mr. Barnes: this was not my area of study, but I was aware of the basic premises of his project.  Would you like to hear what I do know?  I am sure you are dying to find out, and I’m a generous man.  Very generous, as you will soon learn.”  

Bucky swallowed a thick lump in his throat as he became aware of other soldiers filtering into the room.  

Lukin continued, “Assuming the ritual was successful and Zola was correct, you are in the process of becoming a demon.  You need sex to feed; to keep yourself alive.  And,” Lukin chuckled again as he glanced pointedly at his arm, “To help you recover from injuries?  We can assist you with that.”  
  
“I don’t need your fucking help!” Bucky shouted all the while his cock gave another traitorous twitch at the idea of getting fucked by all those men.  Despite his protests, the more the sedatives were wearing off, the hungrier he was getting.  And, Bucky realized with a growing sense of dread, it was probably only a matter of time till his lust won out and drove him to do something utterly reprehensible.    

Desperate, Bucky realized that there was only one appendage that wasn’t secured.  With a sudden flick, Bucky wrenched his tail from Lukin’s grasp and whipped it back around, slapping him across the face.  

Lukin paused, surprised, as laughter reverberated around the room from the group of soldiers drawing closer.  

But Lukin seemed nothing more that mildly irritated.  In retaliation, he seized it again roughly, giving it a sharp tug that drew a long moan from Bucky that he was unable to bite down.  “I do not know which is more embarrassing,” Lukin sneered, “The ineffectiveness of that pitiable – what?  Escape attempt?  Or how little you can hide how aroused you are despite your circumstances.”  Lukin eyed the growing moist patch spreading across the front of his boxers. 

“You… did something to me,” Bucky managed weakly.  

“Of course we did.  Well, Zola did when he created you.  The strange thing is,” Lukin continued, “Zola insisted that he was never able to complete the ritual.  And yet here you are: changed.  Someone must have done it.”  

Bucky’s brows knitted as his mind flashed back to the tumultuous, confusing time he was held in the Backroom in Kreischberg.  Zola had been there… the carving in his chest and pain… but the end of it?  Steve had rescued him.  Steve had floated into view like a damn angel… and then…?  Steve had bled on him and then there had been a flash and even more pain and… Oh God, that’s what had done it, hadn’t it?  Bucky swallowed down the memory, instead accosting Lukin with a defiant glare.  “You must be desperate if you’re asking me.  I was doped out of my fucking mind, and it ain’t my fault if your so-called scientists or magicians or whatever didn’t keep fucking records!”  

“It makes no difference.” Lukin shrugged, “I have no interest in wasting my resources trying to recreate his experiments when I already have you.  And believe me, Mr. Barnes, I know precisely how valuable you are.  We may have lost a great deal, but we are rebuilding and will be stronger than before.  We will open the door to a new world, and you will help pave the way.” 

“Never.  You’re more deluded than Zola if you actually think I’m going to work for Hydra.”

“We will see.”  Lukin responded, nonplussed. “But surely you must be miserable.  And for now, all you need to do to let us help you is tell us: what is it that you need?  Men?  Women?  Perhaps we can give you your arm back.”

“You’re enjoying this, you sick fuck, aren’t you?  I don’t want anything from you!”  Were they just trying to humiliate him further by making him say it, or did they honestly not know what he needed?  Bucky wasn’t sure which was worse.  But his arm?  He’d regrown the damn tail, but was it actually possible to heal his lost arm as well?  Guilty strings of hope flittered through his chest.  He’d been ready to die when he fell from the train, but waking up alive but missing his arm and captured by Hydra had made the consequences of his actions really fucking real.  Maybe if he had his arm back, he could at least fight back.  _No, no don’t even think about it._

“Mmm… Very well.  We Russians have learned the fine skill of great patience: something which you do not have the luxury of in your condition.  Eventually you will just drive yourself to madness as soon as you have fully thawed and the rest of the sedatives have worked their way out of your system.  Sooner or later, Sergeant Barnes, you must give in.  This is something you will learn.  In the meantime, let us take a look: are there any other developments?”

Lukin dug a hand through his hair, his fingers scraping Bucky’s scalp.  “Have you grown horns yet?  No?  Not _yet.”_   

_Horns?_   That was a joke?  Right?  That had to be a joke, but Bucky wasn’t sure that Lukin was even aware of the concept of humor.  He’d always been scared of the idea of getting worse; that the tail was just the start and he’d become some kind of obvious monster he couldn’t hide.  But he’d been so far in fucking denial about what he was since he found out that they’d turned him into a demon that it never occurred to him that that terrifying fact could have answered that awful question of what other changes might happen.  This wasn’t a fairy tale.  This wasn’t fantasy.  This was his life now.  And horns… Fuck, real horns.  Bucky swallowed down a tightness in his throat as he couldn’t help but picture it _._

_Don’t let them see – don’t let them see how scared you are.  Don’t let them fucking have that satisfaction._

Bucky struggled in vain as large, rough hands reached around to grope his back before continuing to explore his exposed chest.  But damn if the hands didn’t feel good against his skin, and when the fingers brushed his nipples, they hardened as a plaintive noise slipped from Bucky’s nose.  

 “You are doing yourself no favors,” Lukin intoned as he gave his shoulder a squeeze.  The world went red as a scream tore from Bucky’s throat.  Agony poured through his veins as his body seized.  But as his heartbeat pounded in his ears, the pain faded fast, and the pulse echoed in his erection with renewed vigor.   “Why deny it any longer, Sergeant?  You are hurt.  You are already entering a sexual frenzy – a heat. If you don’t get what you need, you’ll go crazy, unable to stop yourself, or it will – _eventually_ – kill you.  You’ll starve.  But you will give in long before that.  There is no point to this stubborn sense of pride.”

There was every point to his stubborn pride.  This wasn’t a quick and dirty dealing in a back alley.  This wasn’t even the traumatic assault in Gloucester when things went much further than he had planned.  This was _Hydra._ The thought of being fucked by them was disturbing enough, let alone the concept of _letting_ them.  And that’s exactly what they were trying to get him to do.  Break him: they were trying to fucking break him.  And the worst part of it was that he knew Lukin was right: he could only hold out so long.  Already the concept of being fucked by a group of men was turning him on despite how horrified he was by the concept.

And by the looks of things, he wasn’t the only one.  Bucky’s eyes were drawn to the eye-level bulge in the trousers of Lukin and a few of the closer soldiers as they started shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.  _Fuck_ , he could make out the outlines of their erections and his mouth watered and his body ached for them.  When one of the soldiers awkwardly adjusted himself, Bucky’s tongue ran over his tingling lips.  

Lukin’s mouth drew up into a salacious smile, “You know, Mr. Barnes, demons are choosy creatures.  They need to be fed in a particular way.  Sex is not enough; they must feed on the orgasm of another: either by fucking… or being fucked.  And I believe that you have just answered my question, and how interesting it is that you seem to be the latter.  I would have presumed that it would have been the other way around seeing as you are a man.  It makes me wonder if there was something about you to begin with that brought this out in you.”  
  
Bucky’s eyes snapped back up to Lukin’s.  “Says the guy with a bone on over a man strapped to a fucking table!” Bucky snarled.  

But Lukin only seemed more amused by Bucky’s ire.  “And to help them draw in their quarry, they produce pheromones… do you know what those are, Sergeant?”  When Bucky refused to answer, Lukin continued derisively, “Much as how a female insect produces chemicals to attract males to mate with her, your scent can stimulate arousal in your potential partners.”  

Even as Lukin described what he had thought of as his ‘sex perfume’ in clinical detail, the pressing scents of arousal and heat in his blood felt like it was cooking his thoughts away.  Bucky swore he was going to answer Lukin with another protest, but when his mouth fell open all he could utter was a guttural groan.  It was happening.  

Lukin leaned in, smiling in satisfaction as he held one of Bucky’s eyelids open.  “Your eyes have gone black, Mr. Barnes… I believe we are ready to begin.”  Lukin turned with a brusque wave of his hand, “The women are dismissed.  Sokolov, open the table.”  

There was a shuffle of movement as some soldiers filed out of the room and were replaced by others while Lukin slipped some kind of half-facial filter mask over his head.  The nearest soldier in uniform began to crank a winch on the side of the medical table, causing the lower half of the table to scissor open and spread Bucky’s legs apart.  

Bucky groaned again, but his attempted protests turned into a roll of his hips as his erection tented blatantly in his boxers.  He was so hungry, so horny, _just get it over with!_

Lukin moved between his spread legs, hooking a finger in the waistband of his shorts, but paused, barking another infuriating laugh.  “Well this is new: there are two spots on your drawers; are you _wet_ Sergeant?”  
  
_What?_

Scissors made short work of Bucky’s boxers and an intrusive finger pressed against his exposed hole.  “You _are_ wet – like a woman!  There have indeed been other developments after all.  How interesting!”

And fuck – he was right!  The ring of muscle quivered and he felt a bead of liquid trickle downwards.  His cock twitched and leaked, his balls tightened, and Bucky’s body pressed back against Lukin’s finger.  But even though the heat Bucky _knew_ he was entering into took him by the reins, it did not rob him of his shame.  

“Who else knew of this, Sergant?  How you grow wet and crave a man inside of you?  You must have been getting it from somewhere or else you would have gone mad and died by now.” 

Bucky tossed his head.  “Nngh… shut the fuck up and just get it over with!” Bucky managed.  

Lukin hummed in satisfaction.  “You are correct.  We will have plenty of time for conversation later.  Although, I do wonder what your Captain might think if he saw you like this… begging to be fucked by Hydra soldiers?”

Lukin’s blow found its mark; Bucky’s gut churned with self-disgust as his face contorted into an anguished grimace.  He was disgusting, but this was their fault – they made him like this.  But the mantra was little help as Bucky’s hips rolled again, his cock drooling over his stomach.  His tail now free from Lukin’s grip, began to slide between his legs, wrapping around his cock in desperation while the soldiers drew closer and began to unbutton their flies.  Torturously, they held back, watching and laughing derisively as Bucky tried in vain to get some relief from his mounting need.  He wanted to hide, to cry, to escape this torture of being on display as he tried to jerk off with his fucking _tail_ while they started to touch themselves, but he couldn’t stop himself.  It felt so damn good: the tail squeezing and spreading his own slick over the length of his shaft while being so sensitive itself.  But ultimately, it only drove him closer to the edge and didn’t grant him the satisfaction he needed.  Words spilled from his mouth, but while Bucky couldn’t have said what they were, he knew they must have been some mortifying plea for sex.

Finally, Lukin snapped his fingers and gestured to Bucky.  “Give him what he needs.”  

They moved in on him, their own pupils blown wide and faces flushed as they shoved each other to get access to an available orifice.  Bucky’s eyes rolled back in his head as a fingers spread him open before blunt cockhead found its mark.  A moment later, another salty, hot, _delicious_ dick was in his mouth and Bucky began to suck greedily at it.  His mouth tingled as the first little teases of life-giving energy dribbled onto his tongue.  

_Don’t think about what you’re doing, don’t think about what they’re doing.  Just get through this, just feel_.  He squeezed his eyes shut and let his mind drift, escaping the details into a haze of pure pleasure.  

The first shot of pleasure came fast, making his whole body spasm as he came in concert; muscles tingled flashes of fireworks lit up behind his eyelids.  But it wasn’t enough.  He was still _so_ hungry.  Bearing down, he rode it out, desperately draining every last drop before it was pulled from him, only to be replaced by another deep thrust.  His body was an impassioned furnace of desire, hungrily consuming every bit of energy that he was offered.  Even though his arm was bound, he leaned into the groin of the man feeding him his dick, burying his nose in thick hair as he swallowed him down.  His tail found its way to help prepare someone waiting for their turn.  And his pheromones were so thick as Bucky was lost to sexual frenzy that if the soldiers had had any reservations, there were no words of protest.  The few moments he had with his mouth free between blow jobs, pleas tumbled from his empty mouth to be filled with _more_ , more _,_ MORE.

And as Bucky’s mind drifted further away and time became a foreign concept, another new, pleasurable sensation ran through his body.  I was like his nerves had lit up and branched out to where his left arm had been, sending warm undulations of pleasure along phantom muscles.  Even the raw pain in his stump had converted into something glorious, sending him into a sensory-overload.  

It was both too much and not enough.  Pleasure became his very being.   
  
Until finally, darkness and exhaustion ate away at even the flashes of lights and colors behind his eyes, dropping him back into the warm embrace of oblivion.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to [M7nico ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/M7nico/pseuds/M7nico) who is translating the first fic in this series, Dragging You Down, into Chinese!!
> 
> Also, MUCH thanks to Kamiki for help with inspiration for so much of this chapter (and fic as a whole)!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [araniaart](http://araniaart.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

 Steve grinned up at him, red-nosed and face flushed in the cold winter air.  Didn’t matter a lick of difference that he was bundled up in a hand-me-down coat that Bucky swore didn’t fit him around the shoulders any more, the cold had a way of finding Steve like a dog after a buried bone.  “Thanks for coming with me.  I know you usually go with your folks across town.”

“Yeah well, maybe your priest will be a little more lenient on me than Father Simon after that hot date I had with Mary Connor.”

Steve gave him the hairy eyeball, “Then you don’t know Father MacMillan.  I hope you like saying Hail Marys because I think you’ll be reciting them till supper.” 

Bucky gave an over-exaggerated groan as he drug Steve in closer with an arm around his neck.  “You know, I’m sure Father MacMillan would understand if you missed a week considerin’ you only just got over being sick and it’s freezing out.”

Steve scowled, “It’s not about Father MacMillan, Buck.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  I’m just saying, I don’t think Sunday Mass is going to do any more for you than a warm bowl of soup and staying out of this weather.”

Steve shoved Bucky off, “You shouldn’t say that kinda thing, Buck.”

Bucky held up his hands, “C’mon, God helps those who help themselves, right?  You ain’t doing yourself any favors right now.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m doing you a favor for not socking you in the nose right before church.  I’m fine.  You don’t have to treat me like a kid, and so help me if that’s the reason you came with me today.”

“Fine.  Sorry I said anything.” Bucky stewed as they approached the modest cathedral built of white stone turned brownish grey over the decades with a large stained glass set over the doors.  But as Bucky followed Steve through the gate of the churchyard, his feet just seemed to stop working.

Steve turned, querulous as Bucky stood like a damned idiot frozen at the gate.  He was telling his feet to move, but he just couldn’t make himself cross the threshold.  And was it – was it getting really fucking hot all of a sudden?

Suddenly, a tail tore its way out of the seat of his pants and long spiraling horns erupted from his temple.  

“Bucky-” Steve looked on him, betrayed and horrified.  And deep in Bucky’s gut, he knew that Steve was seeing him for what he really was: something evil and twisted and undeserving of love or even friendship: a _demon_.  

Steve backed away from him, the disgust on his face hurt more than a gunshot.  And suddenly, the ground beneath his feet cracked and gave way and Bucky could only watch as he fell away from the Steve, the church, and Brooklyn itself into a sea of fire… or maybe it was a chasm of ice…

*  
Bucky woke with a start, shaking from the nightmare and gasping for breath.  

Shame and disgust were quick on the heels of consciousness, returning to him with the full brunt of his memories of the previous… night? Day?  Christ, why couldn’t that part have been the nightmare?  

He hadn’t just been raped; he’d gone along with it and begged them for more.  Nausea swam in his gut as Bucky realized what probably made up his stomach contents.  He wanted to get sick, but the fact that physically he felt fucking amazing only seemed to rub his nose in his shame all the more.  

He couldn’t bear to open his eyes to see what fresh horror awaited him just yet.  He rolled over with a groan, pressing his face into cold, unforgiving stone.  

It was a good thing Steve never found out exactly what Hydra had turned him into, Bucky thought miserably.  Not only would he have found some way to blame himself, but Bucky couldn’t imagine Steve not having a legitimate moral issue with remaining friends with him.  Maybe he’d try, maybe he’d even come up with some malarkey justification, but it would eat at him more than the pneumonia had in the winters.  

Steve’s life was probably a hell of a lot better now that Bucky and all of his troubles were out of it.  

_No.  Quit feeling sorry for yourself_ , Bucky caught himself.  _It’s not going to do you a damn bit of good_.  _They did this to you._ _You think Steve would lay here, captured, beating himself up over this shit?  Hydra’s doing that well enough that you don’t have to fucking help them._

Bucky grit his teeth and balled his hands into fists.  Hydra wanted a demon?  He’d give them a fucking demon.  

Wait.

Hands?

Hope burst in his chest as his eye snapped open to reveal…

For a brief moment, Bucky thought there was something else in the room with him before it dawned on him what he was seeing.  

_That’s not my arm!!!_

Where his left arm had been a twisted, darkened mass had taken its place.  Okay sure, it was technically arm-shaped, but that was about where the similarities ended between what should have been there and this _thing_.  It was gnarled, muscular, and fucking _evil_ looking.  Dark skin the same mottled warm gray as his tail covered it from shoulder to clawed fingertips – but it looked more like cracked clay than skin.  A series of horizontal fissures ran up the length of it and thorny spines collected near the elbow.  

Hesitantly, Bucky ran his human hand over it, half expecting it to burn or something.  But it didn’t hurt him.  It was even a little smoother than it looked, the same temperature as his other hand, and surprisingly hard.  Emboldened, Bucky attempted to dig a fingernail into the hard surface.  To his amazement, it didn’t hurt; the skin was utterly unyielding and only rewarded him with a broken fingernail.  But for as hard as it was, he still had sensation.  It was… different: not super-sensitive like his tail, but not exactly muffled or deadened either.  The unforgiving ‘skin’ didn’t yield to pressure and so things felt a little distorted.  Like he could feel shapes, temperature, and textures, but pressure was all off.  

Okay, maybe it was a little fascinating.  If he closed his eyes, it almost felt familiar; the same muscle movements allowing him to open and close his hand as before.  And when he flexed and turned it exploratively, straining the muscles, the ridges and platelike segments shifted in a strange, undulating pattern.

Except this was his arm now.  This wasn’t a new toy or something out of _Amazing Stories_ ; it was a fucking _demon_ arm.  

_C’mon, Buck.  You’re better than this.  You’ve got time for good old self-reflective horror later.  Swallow it down.  Survey the surroundings.  What do you have to work with?_

To the surprise of no one, he had been left in a prison cell devoid of anything softer than stone.  Despite no windows in sight, the cell was cold and clammy, the concrete floors leeching the heat out of Bucky’s bare feet.  A stone bench had been set into the back wall; his only other amenities were an empty bucket, a roll of toilet paper, and dog dishes of questionable water and something lumpy and grey that was probably supposed to be food.  

Past the heavy iron bars that made up the front of his cell was a larger room with a drain set into the center of the same concrete flooring.  A single caged bulb hanging from the ceiling provided the only source of light, flickering just frequently and erratically enough to already be getting on his nerves.  The only furniture pieces were a few wooden chairs and an ominous, newer-looking cabinet with locks on the drawers.  Judging from the width of the main room, which extended about six feet to either side of his cell, he was probably in the middle of three cells.  A small set of stairs at the far end of the room led up to a solid steel reinforced door.  So he was either in the facility’s cellar or torture chamber.  Or perhaps both!  

“Anyone else stuck in this hell hole with me?” Bucky called out.  It was worth a shot, but his question was answered only by silence.  However, when he strained, he could make out the sound of something scuffing against stone beyond the far door.  So they weren’t stupid enough to leave him completely alone, but maybe wanted to give him the illusion of isolation. 

They did, however, have the decency to leave him in his clothes: at least what was left of them, which was comprised of his blue peacoat, sans sleeves and his trousers, sans underwear.  His tail was free, hanging out over the top of his waistband and making his pants ride low.  They’d taken his boots and shirt, but that left him more to work with than they probably anticipated.  

But before Bucky could start piecing together what little resources and information he had at his disposal into a semblance of a plan, his sharp hearing picked up on approaching bootsteps.  

The steel door opened with a loud whine and Lukin, flanked by two other soldiers, strode into the outer room, stopping about five feet from the gate of his prison cell.  

“Ah good, you are awake, Mr. Barnes.  How do you like your new arm?  I promised you we’d help you fix it, and I am a man of my word.”

“This is _not_ my arm.” Bucky growled, the thorny ridges on his elbow and the base of his tail flexing.  

“Come now, Sergeant.  The sooner you accept what you have become, the sooner you can move forward to embrace the strengths Hydra has gifted you.” 

“Funny, I can’t remember sitting on Santa Hydra’s lap and asking for anything.” 

“You were asking for a lot last night, Sergeant Barnes, and I do believe that you were sitting on quite a few laps.”  Lukin said, earning him a glare.  

“Hydra that hard up for a lay that they had to turn me into a damn sex demon?!” Bucky spat.  

“Were it up to me, I would not choose to have to deal with such a vulgar feeding requirement, but I am afraid that that aspect of your existence is merely, how do you say it?  A part of the package?  You are a demon, and all demons must feed on sex to fuel their strength.  They were designed to be the perfect slave race, you see: strong, obedient, and eager to satisfy their master _every_ need.”  
  
Bucky had some serious fucking doubts as to Lukin’s disinterest in dealing with his dietary needs.   Even if he may not have dealt with Bucky’s heat personally, the sadistic son of a bitch seemed to have gotten off on the fucking power trip.  Even now, Lukin’s eyes didn’t stop moving as they hungrily strafed over his arm and lashing tail like a soldier examining a new rifle.  “Obedient?  You’re in for a sorry fucking surprise if you’re expecting me to do anything you say.”  

“Not yet perhaps.”  Lukin continued unfazed, “But as I said, I am a patient man and eventually, everyone breaks.  It is just a matter of what does the job.”

Bucky’s fingers curled in against the concrete as he simmered.  

“But what I don’t understand is what makes you so special, Sergeant Barnes.  Everyone before and after you was a catastrophic failure.  Do you know how many subjects Zola went through trying to get his ritual to work?  How much of Hydra’s money Zola wasted?  I have a few theories, would you care to hear them?”  Lukin baited. 

“Not particularly.  But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”  

Lukin continued, ignoring Bucky’s snark and proving him right.  “Perhaps whoever finished the ritual contributed some missing ingredient that Zola overlooked…” 

Bucky schooled his face to remain placid as he thought of Steve’s blood and the serum flowing through his veins, but his tail flicked like a cat’s behind him.

“… Or perhaps your situation is similar to the research my associate Whitehall is conducting, where a host needs to be receptive to be converted.  Maybe there was always a demonic seed within you, lying dormant until triggered.”

Hell no.  The very notion sent chills down Bucky’s spine.  But, a thought pressed at him, he had taken to the war and his role as a sniper so easily.  He never deliberately missed a living target like so many of the men fresh to the battlefield had.  Was there something fundamentally wrong with him from the start, some dark stain on his soul?  Steve was always so good, too good for a shitty friend like him… 

_No, don’t let Lukin get to you.  He’s taking shots in the dark to get under your skin._

“… Or Mr. Barnes, perhaps you were just too damn stubborn to die.  Regardless, it seems that whatever the reason, you were meant for this.”

“Did you just come in here to gloat?” Bucky redirected, not willing to play Lukin’s game of trying to find out what struck a nerve.  

“I came here to appraise my weapon.” Lukin responded coolly. 

“Well this weapon ain’t gonna fire unless you’re planning a suicide.” Bucky retorted.

“You are going to be a great asset to Hydra, Mr. Barnes.  It will be so much easier on you if you just give in because it is not a matter of _if_ , but _when_ you break.  Do keep in mind: we can always make things worse for you.”

And with that, Lukin turned his back and strode out of the room, leaving one soldier behind who took up a post by the far door.

Only when the door shut with a bang did Bucky allow the defiant tension to slough away.  But, when he moved to withdraw his hands from their brace against the floor, he had to forcibly jerk his left hand away from its grip on the concrete.  Bewildered, Bucky looked down to see five small divots left behind from where his claws had managed to score the solid cement.

_Okay, arm, points to you: that has the potential to be really fucking useful._

But Lukin’s words managed to fester in his mind and sour his brief moment of optimism.  Why _had_ it worked on him?  And why, of all things, a demon? 

Bucky rose to his feet and patted over to scoop up the bowls of food and water before taking a seat on the bench.  He curled in on himself as appetiteless, he began to pick at the slimy, tasteless food.  

Finally, half-expecting lightning to mercifully strike him down or the words to refuse to form on his tongue, he began in barely a whisper, “Hail Mary, Full of Grace…”


	3. Chapter 3

 Bucky drug a claw along the stone wall, scoring a third vertical line in the neat row he’d begun.  

He ran a finger over the first line: day one.  Or, at least, the first day he’d been conscious.  God knew how long he’d actually been kept here.  Maybe they’d had him for weeks, or maybe they’d lied and had just gotten their tentacles on him.  He wasn’t about to trust anything those squid-Nazis said, but if things went according to plan, he wouldn’t ever have to.    
   
He’d allowed himself the first day to be angry and terrified, sharpening his violation into anger. Hydra was going to be sorely disappointed that God hadn’t struck him down for praying.   

The second day had been for planning.  Bucky had paid careful attention to the guard rotation and their brief interactions with him, which turned out to be stupidly predictable.  While one guard remained on duty in the room outside his cell, Bucky could make out extra scuffing noises outside the solid steel door, meaning at least one other guard was posted there. 

Four times a day, roughly six hours apart, a fresh guard arrived to relieve the previous one on duty.  Three shift changes in a row came with a change of food and water.  The fourth must have been the ovenight shift.  That alone, whether or not they realized it, gifted him with a basic clock. 

During “meal time”, they made him slide his food and water dishes under the bars, and then he was made to move to the bench at the rear of his cell and face the wall before they slid back fresh ones.   A new guard arrived with the fresh provisions and handled the exchange while the old guard monitored with a readied PPD rifle, meaning for a brief window there were two guards on duty.  Once the exchange was complete, the new guard handed the used dishes to the old guard, who left with them. 

Once a day, along with his third meal, they had him leave his waste bucket by the door of the cell.  During this time, the guard outside the room accompanied the new guard to switch it out for an empty one, adding another rifle cocked and ready in case Bucky made a move.   

So they expected him to try something when they swapped out his waste bucket, which made it the worst time to actually try.  

Only the guard stationed outside the room seemed to have the keys to both his cell and the large metal door, playing gatekeeper for the other guards.  Okay, maybe that was a little smart, but he could work with it.  

_And now: day three_ , Bucky thought to himself with a resolute set of his jaw.  Today was the day for action.  

It had been hell to even wait this long, but he had needed to make himself learn as much as he could about his little corner of the facility before making his move.  Maybe if he waited longer he could have learned more, but Bucky wasn’t about to let them move onto whatever they planned to do with him next.  

It was probably less than a half hour till the first shift change of the day: time to get to work.

Bucky pulled down his pants and squatted over the bucket, knowing the guard would avert his eyes while he took a shit.  With his hands already at his ankles, he sliced open the hem of his trouser cuff with a claw and withdrew a tiny metal tube.  Thank God for Howard Stark.  He was down a few tricks thanks to missing his boots and the sleeves of his jacket, but Bucky knew just how lucky of a son of a bitch he was that they’d given him his trousers back and he’d felt that this baby was still where it was supposed to be.  

Then, when he made to go rinse his hands with what was left of the water in his dish, Bucky very carefully unscrewed the cap, lacing the rim of the bowl with the clear liquid inside.  Stark had called it an “organo-phosphorus nerve agent.”  According to Howard, it was a powerful paralytic absorbed through the skin that would render the victim unconscious within ten minutes of contact, and then had the gall to call it a prototype.  Bucky called it his ticket outta here.  

Bucky went back to his bench and laid down facing the back wall while he waited for the shift change.  Slowly, he began picking at the stiff collar of his peacoat, mimicking bored fidgeting.  But just for added insurance, he deliberately began lashing his tail back and forth as if annoyed to draw away any curious eyes from what he was actually doing.  Bucky had had his tail free more over the past three days than he had since the time he’d grown it, and he’d learned that controlling it was a lot like controlling his facial expressions: when he put his mind to it, he could make it do what he wanted it to.  But when he wasn’t thinking about it, the damn thing just moved and reacted as it pleased, and he had to specifically concentrate on it if he wanted it to stay the fuck still.  

And success!  Bucky teased out a pair of long, thin lockpicks just in time palm them as a heavy bolt clanked and the metal door scraped open.

“Slide out dish and face to wall, demon!” A rough voice ordered, setting Bucky’s hackles on edge.  Sure enough, it was the guard Bucky had mentally dubbed ‘Boris’ – who always brought breakfast.  Breakfast, at least, being defined by the meal after the overnight shift and not by any difference in cuisine.  

“Yeah, I know the damn routine you fucking asswipe,” Bucky growled as he shoved off of the bench, clenching his fists in defiance (and hiding the picks).  He gave the pair of bowls a deceptively careful kick beneath the rims, sending them skittering under the bars with a clatter before returning to glower at the wall. 

He listened carefully as Boris picked up the bowls and his measured footsteps backwards.  The leather of the first guard’s rifle sling creaked as he lowered the weapon and the bowls clanked again as they changed hands.  

Wordlessly, the night guard headed back to the metal door and banged twice to be let out as Boris took over his position.

“Good.  You eat now, demon.” His new friend instructed.  

Bucky turned over with a scowl, “Gee, thanks, pal, what would I do without your ever so fucking helpful instructions?”  He hoped the drug acted quick.  

But Bucky did force himself to eat while he waited.  Not only did he want to avoid rousing suspicions during this critical period by acting any different than normal, but if he made it out of here he wasn’t sure how long it was going to be till he got his next meal.  To the surprise of no one, the breakfast of the day was the same tasteless gray slop.  “You should really try some of this stuff, Boris: can’t say I’ve ever put something in my mouth quite this tasteless.”

“Eat, not talk.” Boris barked.  This guy was a real charmer.  

*

Anxiousness was just starting to worm through Bucky’s mind: how long had it been?  Surely ten minutes had already passed; what if it didn’t work?  What if this was one of Howard’s many failed inventions?  What if the stuff was too old or too dry by the time the guy touched it, or what if he touched the wrong part of the bowl or… when he heard a heavy THUD.  

Hope paused Bucky’s heart for a breath before he was possessed with speed borne of desperation.  If Boris was out then that meant the night shift guard probably was too, and Bucky might not have long until others in the facility realized something was wrong.  

If he was really fucking lucky, Bucky thought as he dug the lockpicks into the keyhole and started feeling around for the teeth of the tumbler, Nightshift had gone straight to his quarters and passed out without anyone noticing.  But Bucky wasn’t about to count on that, not when his luck had already landed himself in this den of vipers.  

He strained his ears, listening for the minute clicks and found himself thankful for his enhanced hearing and Dernier’s instructions on lockpicking.  No, what was more likely was that Nightshift had gone to the kitchens or something to drop off his used dishes and fallen unconscious and caused a hell of a commotion.  Guards were probably already on the way and – CLICK.  The door swung open.  

Bucky didn’t need a written invitation.  In a flash he was out of the cell, pausing only long enough to relieve Boris of his rifle and knife before squatting down in front of the metal door. It wasn’t worth the time to stop and try on the guard’s laced up boots when every moment he stalled reduced his chances of escape. 

Here was the tricky part: he had to pick this lock slowly and quietly enough not to draw attention from guard number two.   Bucky placed his ear against the door to listen to the guard’s movements as he used the knife as a stronger torsion wrench in the heavier lock. Every time he heard a foot scuff, an exhale of breath or a cough, he gave himself the window to wiggle a little more forefully.  Sweat beaded on his forehead as the seconds ticked by, expecting to hear dozens of bootsteps running down the hall at any moment.

But then, he felt the last tumbler slide into place with a louder click and Bucky let himself exhale.  The guard outside paused mid-pace, shoes scuffing as he rotated in place. 

Fuck.

Or maybe not.  A wicked grin crossed Bucky’s face as he readied himself.

Sure enough, the guard was approaching the door, but the moment he felt a touch of pressure as the handle was tested from the other side, Bucky slammed the door open with all of his strength.  

He was rewarded with a loud BANG and an “ough!” as the door found its mark.

It felt like a switch in Bucky’s mind flipped and he surrendered himself to instinct.  Like in the factory in Leszno after Steve had been hit, Bucky’s thoughts went quiet as he rounded door with a savage snarl, swiping his claws across the guard’s throat before he hit the ground.  He knew more than thought in words that he had to move fast and quietly, getting as far as he could without firing the confiscated rifle and drawing attention to himself.

And then, he was running through a maze of industrial hallways with nearly identical heavy doors differentiated only by different numbers painted in block printing, pausing only to check out a hallway before rounding the corner.  As Bucky ran, the hallways imprinted in his memory, forming a mental map.  He had to be in the belly of the facility, he needed to get up and out; none of these doors would lead to that.  

But nowhere did he glimpse a single glyph, never did he catch even the faintest whiff of stringent chemical or sharp sting of ozone.  It corroborated with what General Lukin might have inadvertently given away: these Hydra agents, this facility: it was not connected with Zola’s ritual, and it was not designed to contain him.  They wanted to know his capabilities?  Bucky would be happy to show them.  

He got his chance when he finally spied his quarry: four armed guards stood to either side of the door beneath the universal logo for stairs at the end of a long hallway.  
  
Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek.  The stairwell was at least thirty meters away; there was no way he could make it that far without them firing on him.  Looked like this was the end of the road for stealth.  He brought the rifle to his shoulder, exhaled and turned the corner.  He squeezed off two perfectly measured shots, and two of them dropped before the remaining guards knew what hit them. But as Bucky pulled the trigger the third time, the rifle clicked impotently.

He swore loudly, ducking back behind the corner as a volley of rounds chewed the corner he had been standing at moments before.  He clicked open the rifle quickly: empty.  _Fuck_.  In his haste, it had never occurred to him to check the magazine; he’d just assumed that the clip had been full.  Maybe Lukin didn’t trust the guards not to fill him with lead if he looked at them funny and so limited their ammo.  Maybe it was meant to mitigate damage if he was able to get one of his guards’ weapons from them.  Or, Bucky thought with a sinking feeling, maybe this was some kind of set up.  But one thing was for certain: Bucky didn’t have time for guessing games.  Surely someone had already heard the gunfire and was sending reinforcements.  He tossed the useless rifle to the ground.  He couldn’t go back, he had to go for it.  Anything would be better than staying in Hydra's capture.

_Now._

His tail lashed in preparation for the thirty meter dash.  Just like track back in High School… only with added gunfire.    

Bucky planted his foot, blew the air out of his lungs and kicked off into a sprint.

20 meters out and the guards registered he was out in the open and lined up their shots.

10 meters out, and they opened fire.  Instinctively, Bucky brought up his left arm to shield his face and chest – he’d lost it once already and if this monstrosity was mangled, it would be a small price to pay for freedom.  

He felt a brief sting – like catching a baseball without a mitt – before he was on them.  And whaddaya know?  His arm was still functional: gripping the first by the throat and closing his fingers through his neck while he planted a savage kick mid-body to the other, slamming him hard against the stairwell door.  His head left a bloody dent in the door. 

In less than four seconds from kicking off, it was over: the two remaining guards were dead and had only managed to squeeze off one volley of bullets.  Bucky lifted his arm to assess the damage, only to find that there was none.  

_Damn._   

_Nope, c’mon Buck, escape now, appreciate it later._

Bucky wrenched open the stairwell door to gunfire. 

Time seemed to hang for a moment as Bucky’s body registered the flare of pain before he realized what had happened.  Dumbfounded, he looked down to see a half dozen darts with colorful flight stabilizers sticking out of his chest.  _Tranquilizers?  Had they all been using tranqs?_   Already his mind was slowing, like his thoughts were molasses.  He swayed on his feet, his vision swimming as he swung his head back up to find their source.  Behind the door that Bucky was still holding – no – holding onto were a group of armed guards decked out in riot gear with raised rifles.  

“That’s not a stairwell…” Bucky managed brilliantly as the world dissolved into a mosaic of color and then blackness.  

*

Everything hurt.  

Again.

He managed to keep himself from groaning as his thoughts began to collect into a semblance of awareness.  His face was pressed against the concrete, and judging by the scuffing and breathing around him, he was far from alone.

 _Stupid… stupid… stupid!_ reverberated through Bucky’s head.  He should have waited before opening the door, he should have listened, should have not picked something so fucking blatant.  Because of course he’d fallen for a damn trap, and he’d wasted his best fucking shot.

A sudden impact to his stomach knocked the wind out of him and Bucky wheezed, unable to fake unconscious any longer.  

“Good Morning, Sergeant Barnes,” Lukin’s voice taunted as Bucky’s eyes cracked open.  Sure enough, he was back in his damn cell and looking up at four guards armed with truncheons.  But when he tried to move, his arms and legs felt like they were made of lead.  “I find myself a bit insulted, for you must think that we are stupid.  Did you honestly think that we had not expected you to try to escape?”

Bucky didn’t give Lukin the satisfaction of a response, deciding instead to level a glare at the coward who stood outside the bars of his cell.  

“This was all a part of my plan, Mr. Barnes.  Part of your education is to understand how futile it is for you to attempt to run.  But your efforts have already assisted us in our education, and I suppose I have you to thank for that.  Our cameras –“ Lukin said as he secured a movie camera to a tripod and pointed the lens towards him, “-which you may have noticed had you not been in quite such a hurry, recorded how fast you can sprint when you are pressed, and the resilience of your new arm.  I must say, you are quite an impressive creature.”

There were testing him out like a fucking piece of stolen technology.  “Gonna make a movie, there, Lukin?” Bucky finally spoke up, slurring his words more than he expected.  “Make sure y’get my good side.” 

“I have an experiment I wish to conduct, that I should like to record for analysis.  Although, I am certain that there would be many parties interested in acquiring such unique footage, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves quite yet.” 

“Yeah, I had a bit of an experiment goin’ on earlier myself: it was called how many of you squid Nazis can I kill before you stop me.  Got five on my first try.  Maybe next time I can beat my score.”

“We are not Nazis, Sergeant.  I fought against their forces when they tried to invade our country, but I am sure that distinction might be too complicated for a mere soldier such as yourself.  But speaking of your little escape attempt: lockpicks and poison sewn into your seams?  Petrov: begin by relieving Mr. Barnes of his clothing and then show him how we reward such insolence.”  Lukin snorted.  “I believe he has shown that he has not earned the privilege of clothes.”  

“Didn’t realize it was that kind of movie.” Bucky refused to let them see him crack.  Every annoyed tick on Lukin’s face, every moment of frustration he caused them was a win, no matter how small.  

A man with a chest like a barrel gripped the collar of Bucky’s coat and tore it off of him, tossing it through the bars before doing the same with his trousers.  

“Can’t even buy me dinner first?” Bucky croaked before the first club cracked over his knee.  

Bucky was unable to swallow down the howl of pain as Lukin continued to fucking talk as batons and boots fell on him like railroad hammers.  If he could just fucking move, but no, whatever had been in those darts left his movements sloppy and slow and only able to lay there as they pummeled him mercilessly.  “Mr. Barnes, even though we anticipated your escape attempt does not mean that it shall go without punishment.  As you will learn, if you go along with us, we can make things easy, even comfortable for you.  But if you fight us, you will only make things harder on yourself.”  

Lukin lifted a hand, and the beating paused, letting Bucky pull in ragged breaths as purple welts bloomed and then began to fade almost as quickly.  His hands shook as he propped himself up, and Bucky did his damndest to channel the influence of skinny Steve Rogers as he returned his glare to Lukin, “I can do this all day.” Bucky grinned nastily around bloodied teeth.  

“Good, Mr. Barnes, because I am curious as to how much punishment your body can take before it runs out of its stored energy.”  He nodded to Petrov.  

“You fucking-“ Bucky didn’t get the chance to finish slinging his insult before a steel-toed boot came down hard on his spine, slamming his chest back into the concrete.  Instead, a wheeze of air was forced from his lungs as his ribs flared with a sharp pain.  

“-bastard.” Bucky spat, turning his eyes on Petrov, earning him a kick in the face and a great view of motes of light dancing behind his eyes. 

Blow after blow landed as Bucky clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to pretend he was sixteen again and outmanned in a fight that went south back in a Brooklyn alley.  It wasn’t the first time he’d had the shit kicked out of him, but the bullies in Brooklyn weren’t fully grown men with steel-toed boots and military batons.  Then again, Bucky realized as he took a club to the side of his face that should have broken his jaw, Lukin was right about one thing: he’d become really fucking resilient.  It still hurt like hell, but for better or worse, Bucky knew that they weren’t going to kill him.  This was a sick fucking experiment and Lukin had said himself that he was too valuable to them to die.  They’d beat him bloody, let him fucking suffer, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of asking them to stop.   

When the pummeling abated, Bucky worked his jaw tentatively from side to side, feeling the joints flare in pain before easing just a bit.  His right eye had swollen to the point that it was hard to see out of and he felt like one massive bruise.  Even breathing fucking hurt.  

“The subject’s healing has begun to slow,” Lukin narrated like he was making a fucking nature film.  “The blood flow to the subject’s wounds has diminished, but the lacerations remain open.  He likely has burned through his energy reserves and his body is re-prioritizing the remnant energy to life support.”  

“If you want to learn about demons, you can go to hell.” Bucky spat.  

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Barnes.” Lukin responded placidly. “Petrov, I believe that Mr. Barnes needs a little more, ah, ‘encouragement’.” 

A club cracked him across the jaw before he could respond, and Bucky’s head snapped to the side from the impact as stars exploded behind his eyelids.  But as much as Bucky would have liked to just pass out, his body had other plans for him.  Instead of seeping from his wounds, his blood began to flow to his groin as he felt himself growing heavier.  

The pain didn’t abate, but started to fade to the back of his mind in favor of something more pressing.  _Shit_.  _This was exactly what they were trying to do._

Bucky clenched his teeth, and found himself trying to hold onto the pain instead, to forestall the budding desire.  But it was like trying to hold his hand over a flame: like the automatic response to simply jerk his hand away, his mind kept pulling away from the screaming nerves of his fresh injuries in favor of something much more pleasant.   And as another boot caught him in the ribs, kicking him over onto his back, a strangled cry clawed out of his throat and Bucky’s mind snapped like a rubber band.  

His cock flushed as it reached full mast and Bucky’s mouth fell open with a long groan as colors and smells intensified.  A shuddering, pulling need ran from his spine to his belly to his ass as he felt a pooling of moisture beneath him.  He could _smell_ the musky arousal from the circle of soldiers standing over him and his body ached for it with sudden desperation.  

“Sufficient injury past the point of healing appears to drive the subject into heat.  Note the expanded pupils giving the appearance of solid black eyes.”  Lukin looked up from the viewfinder of the camera.  “Does pain turn you on now, Sergeant?”  

Bucky didn’t answer.  Even if he had wanted to, he didn’t trust his voice to do anything other than betray his humiliating need.  Instead, he gaped as the circle around him grew tighter and he was afforded a snail’s eye view of the bulges in their tactical pants.   

“And when the subject is in the throes of heat, he produces pheromones that have a drastic effect on men near him.” 

Being so close to them as one of them began to palm at himself through his pants and another started to work open his fly was crippling Bucky’s resolve.  It was one thing waiting for it in an alley as his hunger escalated; it was a very different thing to be laying, battered and starving as the men around him were barely holding themselves back from jumping him.   And fuck, that mental image wasn’t helping things.  He pictured them grabbing at him, pulling his hair and forcing his mouth open and-

“Perhaps these fine men will assist you with what you need, if you ask them nicely, Sergeant.” Lukin taunted. 

Hatred coiled in Bucky’s gut nearly as hot as his desire.  These same Hydra fucks had beat him half to death, and now… and now… 

No.  He wouldn’t beg; he wasn’t going to give them thatfucking satisfaction on top of everything they’d taken from him.  But he needed satisfaction – oh god he needed it like air!  And now, of course _now_ his body responded to his commands as he surged to his knees and tore open the nearest soldier’s pants.  

His mouth was on his cock before Petrov knew what was happening, evidenced by his startled grunt that quickly devolved into a guttural moan.  And why did this fuckhead have to taste so damn good?  Bucky hummed around his girth as his nose filled with the heady scent of his desire.  His hands, seeming to act on their own accord, reached around to dig his fingers into his ass cheeks and jerk his hips forward, driving Petrov’s cock deeper into his mouth.  

Another set of hands found Bucky’s waist, jerking his ass up and making him cling that much harder to Petrov’s ass to keep his balance.  His back arched and Bucky hated that he found himself waiting for it, already imagining the cock that would be soon be filling him, stretching him wide and filling that yawning emptiness that bordered on painful.  He felt a trickle of warm liquid slide down his inner thighs, but nothing happened.  What the hell was taking him so long? 

Unwilling or unable to pull his mouth off of Petrov’s cock that had begun throbbing in time with his pulse – _it’s only a matter of time, come on, come for me, I’m so hungry! –_ Bucky forced his eyes open and glanced over to see Lukin with a hand up and staring down the goat-faced man behind him.  _Oh for fuck’s sake!  This sick fucking bastard, probably… pleasefuckme… probably turning him on watching me squirm like this… justdoitalready!_

“Do you wish for him to fuck you, Sergeant Barnes?”  
  
Bucky groaned, mortified as his head began to bob.  

“Admit it: you want these Hydra soldiers to fuck you senseless.  Do so and I am certain that Kozlov there will be happy to oblige you.”  
  
Another moan slipped from Bucky’s mouth, his hole quivering and slick as he squeezed his eyes shut and nodded again.  _Just get it over with, you twisted Hydra fuck!_

And then he was inside, and Bucky’s body was already starting to shudder at the edge of ecstasy.  

“Who are you thinking of, Sergeant?  Your dear Captain, perhaps?”

 _Steve…_ the mere thought of him stirred something in his chest, and his cock twitched, drooling a new rivulet of precome.  Bucky’s eyes snapped open and his whole body went rigid, knowing Lukin wouldn’t have missed his reaction. 

Lukin barked a laugh, “You do hunger for your Captain.  Did he know what you were?  Did he debase himself with you?”

For a moment, his anger burned through his lust and Bucky managed to whip his head around to growl in stilted words, “F-fuck you… Lukin.  Ste-Captain Rogers… never… _never_ …” He wouldn’t betray that confidence.  Even like this, he refused to sully Steve’s name, not even with the truth.  Let them humiliate him, let them fuck him like a damn doll – Bucky licked his lips, still aching for it – but he would never give them even an ounce of leverage against Steve. 

“Perhaps we will send him a copy of this film: of you reduced to Hydra’s whore.  Do you think he would come for you knowing the depraved things you think about him?”

Bucky let his eyes widen.  “No,” Bucky panted, masking hope with fear.  _That’s right you bastard, send him this video – let him know I’m alive and I’m here.  He’d still come for me_ … _god yes, Steve… coming for me, coming in me_ – Bucky could feel Kozlov’s long dick sliding back and forth within him, his body squeezing around it, and his mind began to drift.  

Petrov grunted in irritation and grabbed him hard by the hair, pushing his head back down hard over his cock, and Bucky’s protests melted as he could _sense_ how close he was.  

If Lukin said anything else, Bucky was too focused on reaching his goal to notice, his heat making up for his moment of lucidity with a redoubled animal need. His lips sealed around the shaft already wet with his spit as his tongue hungrily lathed over it, goading it towards release.  And then at last, with another lick up the pulsing vein, hot come splashed down his throat.  _So good so good!  Fuck!_   Bucky’s body was alive with tingling pleasure; it was the splash of cold water to he’d been dying for to quench his thirst and douse his enflamed mind.  He could feel the shivering energy soothing his wounds like a salve on burns. It had been enough: he pulled off of him with a gasp, sudden clarity returning to him.  He didn’t want to take a drop more than he needed from these Hydra scumbags, no matter how fucking good it felt.  But his body was still fluttering with the orgasm, and before he could turn on Koslov to get him out and start taking the price out of his flesh, Koslov spilled over with a gasp, shooting off hot euphoria into him.  

The tickles of energy turned into a flood.  

Bucky shoved off, collapsing onto his elbows and knees as he shook with intoxicating overstimulation.  Energy undulated through him and finally collected in his mouth as he licked at his lips, unable to help but savor the remnant taste of jism on his tongue.  His teeth began pulsing in his mouth in time with his cock.  He panted and groaned, flitters of pleasure traveling through his nerves as he felt a sudden prick of something sharp against his tongue.  _The fuck?_   Bucky ran his tongue gingerly back over it in time to feel his four aching canines jerk a few millimeters longer with a sudden wrenching gasp.  

“When’s my turn?” A voice, gravely with lust, found its way to Bucky’s ears as the third guard shoved his way over to Bucky and seized him by the jaw.  His pants were already down around his ankles, his cock red and dripping.  His pheromones must still be in effect, Bucky realized distantly as he reeled in a post-coital cloud.  But while his cock _did_ smell good, Bucky had a much better idea.

He parted his swollen lips slightly, invitingly, looking up at the guard through heavy lashes and hoping he was addled enough to not notice his contracting pupils.  And sure enough, that was all this asshole needed to jerk his jaw forward and force his cock into his mouth.   

Bucky put new fangs to good use.  He bit down hard and jerked his head to the side, a spray of hot blood splashing over his face and mouth as the guard released him with a scream that could have substituted for an air raid siren. 

Bucky spat out the offending organ with a savage snarl, flashing his bloodied fangs “So are two more heads going to grow in its place??” 

The cell devolved into a madhouse as one guard cracked him across the face with his nightstick as the other two pulled out Dickless, who was screaming bloody murder.  

By the time the stars cleared from his eyes a moment later, the cell door was slamming shut and locking.  Bucky charged it, swiping for the retreating guard with his claws, but the narrow gap between the bars caught him halfway up his forearm.  

Bucky shouted at the cowards as they ran for the exit, “You want to make me stronger?!  GOOD!  I will FIGHT YOU WITH EVERYTHING YOU HAVE GIVEN ME!” 

But Lukin paused when he reached the door, turning to face him with a dangerously calm look.  “If you choose to act like an animal, then we shall gladly treat you as one.”  And with that, he flipped a switch on the wall, plunging the cellar into darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

Was he awake or still asleep?  

Not even a pinpoint of light permeated this windowless cave of a basement for his enhanced vision to use, so the cloying darkness surrounding him never changed regardless of whether his eyes were open or closed, and the seeping, viscous cold had even begun to permeate his dreams.  Between no clothing, no blanket, and all the food he was served being just as cold, wet, and tasteless as his water, he felt like he had never completely thawed out since they’d found him.  In his dreams, the cold itself was his warden, ever-present and inescapable. 

Leaving him naked and abandoned to the darkness had rendered Bucky feeling more animal than any active form of punishment or abuse Hydra had leveraged against him. He could feel the grime that had begun to gather over his skin in a slimy film and smell the rancid odor of sweat and stale jizz he had accrued.  Robbed of any visual distraction, he was painfully aware of every alien sensation that passed through his inhuman features: a ripple of movement as the platelike segments of his arm shifted, the sinuous swish of his tail, and he couldn’t stop himself from running his tongue repeatedly over the changed landscape of his teeth.  He felt like a stranger in his own goddamned body.  

He needed an anchor.  Bucky slid off of the stone bench, dropped to a crouch and snaked an arm out with practiced precision to find the grooves he’d carved beneath.  The shaking fingers of Bucky’s human hand traced along the notches in the stone wall, feeling out the two full sets of tally marks.  Ten days.  Had it really only been ten days since he woke up in this hell hole?  

Maybe it was more.  Maybe they had only set such a regular goddamned pattern when he first arrived in order to fuck with him now.  Every three visits from the guards, when they swapped out his bucket, he added a notch to his count.  But Bucky _swore_ that they weren’t keeping regular shifts any more.  Sometimes, it felt like he’d barely finished a meal before they were back again with more, temporarily blinding him with the light of the flickering bulb before condemning him back into the darkness once again when they left.  Other times, his stomach clawed with hunger and his mouth went dry from thirst before the guards finally showed up to refill his bowls.  Once, he swore it was at least a half dozen visits before they swapped out his bucket.  Was he going crazy, or were they just trying to make him doubt his sense of time and reality itself?  

But the tally marks were all he had.  Even if it was a rough estimate, it was something.  He closed his eyes to steady himself more than shut out any extra sensory information as he let his fingers feel along the grooves like a mantra.  There was a divot above the third day: when he’d last fed.  When he’d fought back and the guards had shut off the lights.  Seven days since then.  One week.  Ten days in total.  Ten days wasn’t very long, not really.  

Did Steve know he was alive yet?  Had they gone in search of his body to find it missing?  Had Hydra really sent him the video like they’d threatened?

He hoped so.  But damn, Bucky was FUBAR’d for letting himself hope for something as deplorable as that.  He never wanted Steve to see him like that, debasing himself for fucking Hydra, but he was more terrified of what would happen if he couldn’t get out of here.  

He’d been half out of his mind by the time Steve had found him in Austria, losing more and more of himself with every passing day.  This time, Hydra hadn’t even resorted to hallucinogens; not yet at least.  They were letting the darkness and the isolation do the work for them; making it so that he actually _missed_ having a fucking guard in the room, and that really was insane.  

And damn he missed Steve like he missed the light and like he missed his very humanity that he was losing his grip on.  Even when things were getting bad during the war, having Steve there, still looking at him like his friend and still trusting him even when he grew a fucking tail made it easier to pretend he was still human and not some thing that dwelled in the dark.  

Steve would have been better than this.  He wouldn’t have caved to these vile needs they’d put into him.  _There must have been something wrong with him to begin with if the ritual even took._ Steve would have found a way to get out of here by now.  

He never should have blown his opportunity.  He had lockpicks and poison and he had _wasted_ his only fucking chance at escape.  He’d failed at escape, he’d failed at resisting these infernal desires even when it came to fucking _Hydra_ soldiers, and he’d even failed at dying for Steve.  

He probably didn’t even know he was alive.  Steve was probably out there, moving on and living his life and getting his happily ever after.  After all, that’s what he’d tried to sacrifice himself for, wasn’t it?  It was selfish of him to want Steve to come for him and saddle him with the burden he’d become.  

_C’mon, Buck.  You can’t wait for Steve to bust in here like a knight on a white horse.  Pull yourself together.  You’re not down for the count yet.  They haven’t won yet.  Don’t act like they have or you really are done for. What have you learned?_

Bucky rose to his feet and ran fingers through his hair as he counted out the three paces to the front of the cell.  He’d worked at the lock for hours the first day he’d been left alone in the darkness, but ultimately his claws were too short and too thick to have a chance at picking the lock.  He followed the scabby texture of the metal bars (that had resisted bending to his full strength) to the side of the wall where he’d already tried to desperately claw his way through the solid stone.  Deep gouges ran through the concrete, only to reveal a core of more fucking metal.  Even if they hadn’t expected to have to contain a demon – _no, don’t let them getting your head like that_ – to contain _him_ – this cell had been built solidly.  He wasn’t going to be able to tear his way free by brute force.  

No, instead he needed information, so that if there was an opening he could take it.  Next time he got out of his cell, he needed to be better prepared.  He needed to figure another path outta here so he didn’t run headlong into a waiting trap.  

So he’d started to listen.  He found himself straining to hear the intermittent conversations of the two guards that were now posted outside the door.  

Did they even know he could overhear them behind the reinforced metal behemoth of a door?  Probably not; they probably wanted him to go crazy in here, so eager for human contact that he’d do whatever they wanted.

Besides, other than counting and recounting his tally marks or memorizing every crack and groove in his cell, it was the only thing outside his own head he could focus on.  

And when he had nothing else to focus on?  Learning another language was a damn good way to try to keep himself sane.  Russian became a puzzle he could work at and turn over in his mind.  And the more he listened, the more information he was able to filter out of their conversations.  From what Bucky could piece together, this compound was a weapons facility that Hydra used to squirrel away resources during the war, but its primary purpose was the development and storage of missiles for the Soviet army.   Lukin sounded ambitious: having already promised many of the guards esteemed positions within “the New Hydra” and some kind of bullshit propaganda about a beautiful union of Hydra cells across the globe to bring together a divided world.  But the most valuable nuggets of information came from their complaining.  They talked about their sleeping quarters – _kept on site_ – an annoying bunkmate _– enough soldiers that they have to double up, but not packed in more than two per room_ – and the shitty food of the mess hall, but no other options _– wherever we are, we aren’t close to a city, but where there’s a kitchen, there would be a back door._ One of them had even been careless enough to slip that Lukin had a bug up his ass since the incident with his last heat – _He doesn’t know how to handle me_.  

 _Is that why he hasn’t been back in since then?  Is he scared of me?  Or is he trying to leave me wondering.  He’s the one with the authority here; what the fuck is he trying to do?! Why hasn’t he tried to get anything else out of me?  Why leave me alone in here for so goddamned long_?!

When they weren’t talking, he listened to footsteps.  They kept a pair of guards posted outside his cell at all hours, changing shifts with each feeding, the previous pair staying behind the doors while the two fresh ones came in with refills.  And when he really listened?  He could tell the direction they always came from and departed.  Down the hall and then to the right.  He overlaid the footsteps with the map he’d sketched in his head when he’d managed to get loose.  He’d run by so many doors.  If the doors that had been marked as a stairwell had just been a decoy, then the real stairwell was probably behind some innocuous number.  

A heavy clank reverberated through the room and Bucky dropped to a crouch, throwing an arm up to shield his eyes preemptively.  A moment later, there was a screeching grind as the door heaved open, heavy bootsteps, and the click and audible flickering of the overhead light.

“Bucket to front of cell, then face to wall, Demon!”  

Bucky let a low growl rumble in his chest as he slowly lowered his arm.  _So bright_.  One goddamn flickering light and it was almost too much.  But the white faded to yellow-orange and shadows emerged to form the scummy basement and pair of Hydra assholes.  And oh, look, there was the goat-faced Kozlov.  He hadn’t seen him in here in the last week; so there were at least enough guards on site to keep a varied rotation. 

“Wow, and here I thought I paid for the four star treatment.  No fresh towels?  No washed sheets?  I had better turn-down service in basic.”  Bucky snarked.

“I do not speak to animal.” Kozlov said with a glance at Bucky’s tail.  This wasn’t the first time that the guards had jeered at him like a damn sideshow freak.  

“But apparently you have no problem fucking them.” Bucky grumbled. “Maybe it runs in the family and that’s why you look so much like a damn goat.”

 _< “Goat!  Hahaha, you do have the face of a goat!”>_ his friend chortled in Russian.  

“Do you want eat food or lead?!” Kozlov snarled back at Bucky. He’d hit a nerve.  Good.  

“How’s your friend, Dickless, doing?” Bucky smiled viciously, exposing his fangs.  

The gangly guard slammed his baton against the bars as the other guard raised his rifle in preparation for the switch.  “No talk!  Leave bucket.  Face to wall!” He shouted, face reddening.  

His tail lashing behind him, Bucky picked the shit bucket up by the handle.  

He shouldn’t do it.  No good would come of it.  It would probably just make things worse on him if he did. 

He was gonna do it.  

In one swift movement, Bucky splashed the contents of the bucket all over Kozlov.  His partner barely sidestepped the spray, raising a disgusted hand to his face.  

The look on his face alone was worth whatever punishment he decided to dish out, but the knowledge that it would probably take him hours to scrub away the smell was priceless.  Plus, this sure as hell wasn’t going to make the Kozlov any friends at the facility, and anything Bucky could do to drive a wedge between the Hydra guards was worth doing.  

_“Schas po ebalu poluchish, suka, blyad!”_ Kozlov hurled a string of Russian obscenities that Bucky made sure to memorize.  “You are going to regret this!” He shouted, shifting to English and dumping out the fresh food and water over the drain.  

But he didn’t enter Bucky’s cell; he didn’t fire his rifle.  As furious as he was, all he did was turn and stalk out of the room with his partner in tow (giving him a wide berth), shutting off the lights again as he left. 

Bucky settled back down at the back of his cell with a triumphant smirk, adding an eleventh tallymark to his count.  

Lukin had shown his hand: they were scared of him, and he was too valuable to let starve.  

*

Bucky shivered, clutching his knees in a fetal position on the stone slab.  He didn’t know why he even bothered with the damn table.  It was no more or less comfortable than the fucking floor.  But while the unforgiving stone sapped just as much of the heat from his body as the concrete, at least it granted the illusion of some kind of bed.  Like he was some kind of person.  

_Even if you’re not._   _Not anymore._

There was no saliva left in his mouth to wet his stinging, cracked lips.  His waste bucket was nearly full, and his rumbling stomach drowned out the filtered conversations.  But worse than the dark, worse than the isolation and the hunger and thirst and the smell was the fact Bucky had no idea how long it had been since he’d last had human contact. 

He didn’t know how many times he’d felt over the eleven tickmarks, tempted to add another.  But if he did that, then they’d be utterly meaningless.   _They’re already meaningless.  What the hell difference does time make?  Is it night?  Day?  No one is coming for you.  No one knows you’re alive._

*

Bucky winced, recoiling as the room filled with light and the clunking of boots.  When the painful whiteness and the fireworks behind belatedly-closed lids finally faded to pulsing spots of light and dark, he risked a weak glance over his shoulder.  

Two men.  Bucky was too bleary and too weak to immediately recognize them other than the fact that neither were Kozlov.  

“Face to wall.” One of them pounded his stick against the bars for emphasis and Bucky didn’t have the strength to do anything but comply.  

Dishes clattered and the bucket scraped as the guards swapped them out before the cell slammed closed and the basement returned to darkness.

The moment they were gone, he slipped off the bench, and stumbled, crawling desperately to the bowls to inhale their contents without so much as an exploratory sniff. 

Liquid relief quenched the madness of dehydration.  Bucky rocked back on his heels, panting as he felt his body beginning to stir awake and his thoughts shuffling back into some kind of order.   

They hadn’t retaliated.  Bucky had all but expected to be bathed in his own filth when the guards returned, but no.  Why - ... of course.  Because they knew as well as he did that before long they were going to have to fuck him again.  And they didn’t want to have do that with something that nasty.  

But Bucky’s scowl changed into a considering purse of his lips as he was struck with an idea.  They’d have to come into the cell to do that.  That made the situation into an opportunity: a risky one, but maybe his best shot.  

What if he drained them?  He could knock them out or at least make them too weak to pursue him.  

Crawling back to the bench, Bucky reached over to add a twelfth notch to his collection.  For now, all he could do was wait.

*

The dreams were back.

At first they had been a welcome escape from the nightmare of imprisonment.  The dreams transported him somewhere else: sometimes shacked up in a cheap hotel in Europe, or a makeshift shelter on the road, but always to Steve’s strong, reassuring hands.  Once, the dreams were merciful enough to carry him back home to his apartment in Brooklyn, where they smeared Steve’s paints across the floor with their bodies.  

But as the dreams grew worse, permeating the barrier between sleep and wake, his fragile grip on reality grew weaker.  

In the darkness, Bucky sometimes swore he felt a hot breath on the back of his neck, that the stone bench gripped him with inhumanly strong arms as it pressed against him.  Hands brushed and caressed his exposed cock – _maybe they were his?_ – urging him on, sometime to climax – _what’s wrong with me?  I’m so damn horny I can’t help it -_ and sometimes pulling back and leaving him needy and aching.  

The only time Bucky knew he was awake was when the guards came in throwing his cell into light.  Until that, too, became fodder for his dreams.  Daydreams?  

They came in, seizing him by the tail and had their way with him as he begged for more. Sometimes, Bucky came to on the floor with the image so vivid in his mind that he had go to his tally marks to confirm that he had not actually been with someone since notch 3.    Unless he mistook reality for a dream and never recorded it?  Had he missed his opportunity?  

No… no, the lust, it was still getting worse.  He couldn’t have done anything about it yet.  

_Hang in there, Bucky.  Just a little longer… just a little longer_.

*  
When it came, the heat hit Bucky like a locomotive.  Need wrenched him awake with an audible, quavering groan and Bucky didn’t know how the room could have ever felt cold: he was burning up as he rolled off of his bench and onto the floor, writhing.  

The intensity of the desire was always difficult to recall when he was back in his right mind.  Enough so that he had nearly mistaken the tantalizing dreams and daydreams in the days leading up to it for a memory of a real heat.  But now, in the grips of heat, Bucky immediately recognized it for what it was.  Lust consumed every thought and every desire.  He needed to be fucked more than he needed water when they’d abandoned him in the dark. 

But there was no one around.  

A loud, lowing cry warbled from his throat before he sunk his teeth into his tingling lips, biting off his moan.  _No, don’t let them hear – they’ll come – don’t want them to – no, please come, please help me._

But if they had heard, they did nothing.  

His hand took a hold of his aching cock, rubbing at it furiously, precome already drooling from the slit and lubricating his frantic movements.  And fuck, _yes_ , it felt so good.  So good… so good… not enough not enough!  

Sweat beaded all over his skin and he could feel the knobby, fleshy ridges raising along the base of his tail and in patches on his inhuman arm.  Every inch of flesh felt alive and needed to be touched.  A growing wetness spread between the cheeks of his ass, smearing over his thighs as he squirmed helplessly against the concrete.  

Unable to even pretend at dignity any longer, Bucky released a loud wordless cry for help in the form of an undulating wail.  

And still nothing.  

They _had_ to have heard him.  

*  
_God how long has it been?  I’m going to die; I’m going to fucking die of this._

Bucky’s heat had turned into a thing consuming him.  His muscles shook and he must have sweat or _leaked_ at least a quart of water and other fluids onto the cold concrete as he writhed and wailed in increasing desperation.  

It had to have been longer than between his normal feedings.  They had to be ignoring him on purpose.  They knew; they fucking KNEW he was in heat and were ignoring him!  Fuck, this is what they meant when they said he’d regret it.  He took it back, he took it all back – the stunt wasn’t worth it – it wasn’t worth THIS!  He was going crazy, how did they know they weren’t going to kill him like this?? They said – they _said_ he was too valuable to let die.  

_God, don’t let me die like this.  Please, not like this_.  Bucky, thought, terrified as he couldn’t bring himself to take his hand off of his cock.  Instead, his tail had joined in the effort, having pressed against his loosened hole until at least six inches of it was buried inside, sliding back and forth, writhing and making him gasp and clench around it. And fuck did it feel amazing: sensitive and slippery and tight, but it was like getting fucked without the payoff he was starving for.  

And then, a sliver of white split the darkness before the basement exploded into light as bootsteps approached.

Bucky’s vision had gone hazy, but he could make out the shadows of figures as they hesitated a few steps away from the fuzzy outline of the bars.

”Look at it, how desperate it is!” The first voice mocked in English.  They wanted him to understand. 

“It is disgusting,” The other one answered, “How long since it bathed?”  His voice was lighter, hesitant.  

The first one shuffled closer as Bucky moaned, making no secret of his desire, and actually _hoping_ that his scent overpowered them soon.

“You trying to help yourself?” The guard laughed, “You do not work like that any more.  You think of this next time you decide to throw your filth at us.” 

Oh fuck, of course it was Kozlov.  Of _fucking_ course.  But right now, Bucky didn’t care, he just needed him.  His brain helpfully supplying the memory of Kozlov’s long, slender cock pressing all the way inside of him and… Bucky moaned aloud.

“I should let you stew for a while longer in yours.” Kozlov said.  

_No, no please no.  “_ Nnngh!” Bucky protested, eyes widening but unable to form so much as a fucking word.  

Kozlov snorted derisively. “But you are lucky.  Lukin said it has been long enough.”

“Is that its tail up its ass?” The other one asked, and Bucky flushed in shame… but still couldn’t stop himself.

“You know, they say there is only one way for you to come if you are in heat,” Kozolv said nastily, already fingering the buckle of his belt.  Bucky’s eyes were drawn to the bulge in his pants like a magnet.  “But first, I think you apologize.”

 _Fuck_.  “Muhh,” spilled from Bucky’s mouth. 

The other guard slipped a mask over his nose and mouth, then unhooked a strange baton from his belt that had a pair of prongs at the end.  

“That not apology,” Kozlov said as he stuck a key in the gate, swinging it open.

“Ssss…sorry,” Bucky muttered into the concrete, hating himself more with every moment.  

“And you behave after this, yes?” Kozlov dropped his pants as the other guard walked around to Bucky’s face as he nodded furiously.  “Sasha here, he introduce you to – they call ‘stun baton’.  You keep this in your mouth instead of cock this time I think.”

 _Fuck fuck fuck_.  But Bucky’s mouth fell open reflexively as the tip of it was pressed against his swollen lips.  And as the metal prods were touched his tongue, he could _taste_ the promise of a shock – a light tingling over his tongue that infuriatingly did nothing to diminish his arousal. 

“You try something funny?  Bzzzt!”  Kozlov said gleefully as he revealed his cock and Bucky moaned around the stick.  

And then finally, Kozlov wrenched his tail out of him.  For a moment, Bucky wailed at the sudden emptiness.  The only thing worse than fucking himself on his tail and getting nowhere was having it suddenly gone from him.  But the torture was short-lived as Kozlov slid into his already slick and stretched hole like a hand in a glove.  

And _oh_ … OH yes…  Bucky’s back arched as he squeezed him, and stole the snide words from Kozlov’s mouth, twisting them into a guttural noise.  Kozlov’s hips were already stuttering after just a few seconds as Bucky’s very _being_ pulled at Kozlov.  

Kozlov was coming by the time the plan resurfaced in Bucky’s mind along with the first crash of pleasure at long-fucking -last.  _Lock down, ride him hard and milk him for every fucking drop he’s worth!!!_

His friend might not be participating, but shock-stick or not, Bucky liked the odds of one on one if he could knock out Kozlov.

And Bucky really didn’t need much of a reason right now to ride Kozlov out as long as he possibly could.  Because, oh, it was everything he needed – everything he could ever want right here in this moment of absolute bliss.  In this brief moment, he didn’t have to think about his situation or his shame: every cell of his body was overwhelmed in pure ecstasy, his mind quiet.  

The look of bliss on Kozlov’s face contorted to mild surprise as he kept coming, Bucky undulating beneath him and pulling and pulling and pulling every drop of energy from him. 

It really didn’t last very long.  Laughable, really, compared to Steve.  Ten, maybe fifteen seconds of constant orgasm and Kozlov fell off of him 

Now!  Now was his cha-“AAAHhhhhH!!”  

Bucky’s whole body seized in an echo of orgasm, sudden pressure building in his head like the mother of all headaches somehow turned into something _amazing_.  

Distantly, he heard the guards moving away, a dragging noise.  They were leaving the cell.  _He was missing his opportunity!!_   But he couldn’t have moved to save his life as the pressure built, resolving into twin points of pressure near the top of his head.

He jerked his right hand up to feel what the fuck was going on, to find two lumps forming.  He gasped as his finger probed it tentatively – it was so sore!  So sensitive!  It felt like the time he’d been whalloped upside the head with a damn wrench when – OH GOD – his cock gave a twitch as the pressure built again – more and more to the point where the exquisite sensation was pushing over into pure pain.  And finally, when Bucky didn’t think he could take it anymore, the skin ripped with a quick splurt of blood as something hard and sharp tore free.  

The second one broke the skin immediately afterwards, warm blood trickling down over his forehead before the flow stopped a moment later.  His head cleared and arousal began to recede, and he distantly became aware of the sound of breathing nearby.   _They’re still there, outside the cell, watching me.  Of course they are – watching me like a damn science project!_

With shaking hands, he tenderly probed his head.  And there, just about an inch past the hairline was… they were horns.  Small, two inch pointed _horns_.  Bucky’s heart beat erratically and his head felt swimmy, motes of light swimming in his vision.  

_Horns.  DEMON horns.  There’s no going back now._ Bucky swallowed

<”My god, are those – are those _horns_?” > A shaky voice in Russian filtered to him, igniting his shock into raw fury.  

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!” Bucky roared at the younger guard, who jumped about two feet in the air before dragging Kozlov’s sleeping ass out of the basement and slamming the door shut.

Bucky collapsed back against the wall, almost thankful for the leeching cold as a quiver took hold of him.  

_So fucking much for his plan.  He couldn’t win, he couldn’t fucking win.  Take too little and their guard’s up.  Take too much and you’re fucking overwhelmed with your change and what do you get to show for it?!  HORNS.  Fucking horns_.  

If there had been any doubt that maybe Jaenig and Lukin were lying about what he was, there was his fucking proof.  

His chest felt tight and his breath hitched in his throat.  A demon.  A tail and fucking horns – even a child would know him for what he was.  _What would Becca think if she saw me like this?_ Bucky flinched.  

_Maybe I can’t go home… but I don’t have to give up about getting out of here.  Steve wouldn’t._

Bucky reached up again to rub ruefully at one of the horns \- the skin at the base already mending.  It was only then that Bucky realized that the lights had been left on.  

Bucky sighed; that small consolation was more of a relief than he cared to admit.  Resolutely, Bucky walked over to his bench and added a gouged mark above the 25th  tickmark.  They’d be tracking his heats, and so would he.  His time table had been growing shorter, and maybe that would be the key to his next escape attempt.  

They weren’t moving him: they were still learning about him and how he ticked, and didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry.  They weren’t doing anything but keeping him alive and only coming in when they needed to.  But they had to come in when he was on heat, and they’d learned how useless he was when he was during it.  So that’s when their guard would be down.   

Well.

Maybe his next ‘heat” would come on a little early.  Maybe it was a shitty plan: it would be humiliating, and it meant having to fucking put up with this for at least another couple weeks.

But it was a plan.  And a plan meant hope. 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Hope was a threadbare, patchy piece of cloth by the time Bucky added the 44th tally mark to the wall.  Hope couldn’t completely cover up the squalid conditions he’d fallen into or provide him any shelter from the unabating chill.  

Even after spending more than a month in this cell, he wasn’t noseblind to the body odor he had developed.  The buzzing light that never shut off meant he couldn’t ignore the spreading patches of mold in his cell, the grime beneath his fingernails, or the filth accumulating over his naked flesh.  

Exiled in the darkness, seemingly forgotten, had been torturous, but spending twenty tally marks in the unabating light of the flickering bulb had left him just as disoriented about the passage of time.  And while he could at least shut his eyes when he needed an escape from the maddening flicker, the infernal buzzing drilled into his head like a saw without reprieve.

Despite the fact he knew full well that this was exactly what they wanted, Bucky realized he felt grateful for being granted some basic fucking human need.  Lukin had left a very clear message to him: it could always get worse.  They could take his light, they could take his food, they could take away human companionship, and they could even steal his sense of time by varying his feeding schedules.  

_And no one is coming for you._

Nevertheless, the worry that nagged at Bucky more than the incessant buzzing was the fact that Lukin had yet to demand anything from him.  He’d indicated that he wanted to force Bucky to work for him, but he had yet to make his move.  It had been about a month and a half of living in this squalor ( _right_?), and it had nearly gotten to the point where Bucky wanted Lukin to get it over with and try something.  But he hadn’t even _seen_ Lukin since the third tick mark.   Fuck, did they even succeed at making him _want_ to see Lukin again?  But Lukin was the one in control of his situation; anything the guards did was on his orders.  What was taking him so fucking long?  How long was he going to leave him here alone, wondering?

_They’re holding off on torture trying to figure out my damn cycles._

Bucky started pacing around his cell, trying to pull his thoughts together. 

_They’re still testing me, and they’re not in any kind of fucking hurry.  They know how stir-crazy I’m getting.  That’s half the point, isn’t it?  Killing two birds with one stone: torturing me without even having to fucking lift a finger._

_They have me exactly where they want me.  Time is their ally here._

Time.  

Wait.  Was it really time?  It had been nineteen tick marks since his last heat, and before that his cycle had only been twenty two marks.  Surely, it had to have been long enough by now to have a heat be convincing.   _Right?  Would they be too suspicious if it were this much sooner?_  Bucky didn’t know if he could wait much longer, anyway.  Lust had already broken out of his dreams and begun to worm through his gut through the day. Unwelcome fantasies plagued him of the guards coming in, holding him down and fucking him till he was raw from it.  More than once, his body had made its growing desire known when the guards had come to pay him a visit, popping an uncomfortable erection that had earned him ridicule.  

Fuck, it had to have been been long enough.  He had two, maybe three days tops till it boiled over to something he could no longer control.  

If he was right, the shift change should be soon.  In preparation, Bucky lowered himself onto the floor of his cell, and allowed his thoughts to drift to more carnal desires.  His mind went to Steve like a magnet; he missed Steve so goddamned much.  A whimper slithered out of him and he let his hand brush his cock as he imagined Steve’s hands on him, firm and reassuring.  

_I’m always with you, Buck_.  Bucky imagined Steve’s voice in his ear before words turned into hot lips and scraping teeth trailing from his jaw to his neck.  

Moisture tickled along the short distance between his ass and the base of his tail and Bucky let himself groan loudly, hoping to draw the attention from the guards behind the door.  

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes until the door scraped open.  

“I hear you have horns now, Demon.  Now who goat?”  Kozlov’s voice rang through the cavernous basement.  _Good_.  Bucky was glad it was Kozlov; it had been a while since he’d seen that particular asshole, and his reappointment might mean that Lukin was expecting his heat to return soon.  His searing hatred for that man would give him all the focus he needed, and Kozlov having already fucked him twice ( _at least; God, I don’t even know if I could pick the men who fucked me when I first woke up out of a damn lineup)_ hopefully meant that his guard would be lower.  

Bucky let his mouth fall open with an extended moan, thrusting his hips into the air to make fucking sure Kozlov got an eyeful of his dripping cock.  But he kept his eyes squinted near-closed, enough that he could see through his lashes but the guards hopefully couldn’t tell that his eyes hadn’t gone dark.    

“Oho, you hungry for more of me, I see.  You wait for me to come back to fuck you?”  The man sounded positively gleeful.  Bucky couldn’t wait to sink his claws into his neck.  

<“Isn’t it a little soon?”> The other guard asked hesitantly.

Paranoia clenched Bucky’s chest.  Had he made his move too early?  “Uhhnnnng!”  Bucky groaned as he trailed the tip of his tail along his inner thigh.  _God what have I stooped to to put on this fucking show for these traitorous bastards?_

<”Lukin said that the time table might be getting shorter.”> Kozlov said dismissively, and Bucky could hear the rattle of keys.  <”Look at him: he is useless now.  He will do nothing but beg for it.  And look at you: that log in your trousers.  He is in heat.”>

That seemed to be enough to humiliate silence out of the second guard, who quickly fumbled a half-mask onto his face while Kozlov went for the cell door.  “Come, Demon.  Let us see what new gift my cock brings you this time!”

The second guard was still unhooking the stun baton from his belt when the bolt clanked open.  Bucky was on his feet before the first expletive slipped from Kozlov’s mouth.  Bucky’s claws were through his throat by the time the second guard even realized something was wrong. 

The baton swung around, and Bucky instinctively went to catch it with his left hand.  The skin was thick, but the shock still kicked like a fucking mule.  All of his muscles seized, his teeth locked into a grimace, and he leveled a baleful glare at the younger guard who visibly paled around his mask.  Had they expected that to drop him?!  Next to the energy they had sent coursing through him back in Kreischberg, this felt like a fucking tickle.  

With a roar, Bucky ripped the baton from his hands and sent it flying back into his cell as he reached for the guard with his right hand, slamming his head against the bars.  

He dropped like a wet sack of potatoes, leaving a red smear trailing down the rough metal bars.  

Bucky moved fast.  In the weeks he’d been trapped down there, his mind had fixated on Lukin’s comments about cameras; maybe he had some advanced tech to secret them somewhere in the basement.  His thoughts had turned paranoid, circling around myriad possible hiding spots: from keyholes, to cracks in the stone walls, or the ominously locked cabinet: any one of those spots might betray his escape.  

He grabbed the keys and crossed the basement, then knocked twice on the separating door, having seen the pattern close to a hundred times by now.  

<”Already?  I thought he was on heat?”> a voice spoke from the other side as the bolt shifted.  

<”Not yet.  He should be close.”> Bucky responded in a gravelly voice in his best Russian, and the door swung open. 

It only took seconds from when Bucky first saw the guards until he was standing outside the cellar, breathing heavily but energized, with two corpses at his feet.  His conscious mind had barely registered the movements his body had made.

He only stooped long enough to check their weapons: both were loaded with tranquilizers.  He wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about that, but he wasn’t going to waste time disentangling that now.  The path was clear and he had to move quick.

He set off down the hallway, forcing himself to move at the rate he had listened to the guards walking day after day; counting out the footsteps before taking a right.  The halls were empty, but he still moved deliberately, keeping a rifle at ready and checking the corners before taking them.  

Four doors to either side, and one at the end of the hallway.  All of them were marked with simple numbers, but the door at the end looked a little heavier, with a push-bar across the center.  

_Okay Barnes, that looks like the stairwell, but I’m sure as hell not going to fall for a decoy again.  All you need to do is get up to a main level and find a window.  You’re strong enough to break it and get the fuck out of here._

He slipped carefully along the hallway until he reached the far door, and dropped to a knee, listening carefully at the likely candidate for his escape route.

No breathing.  No rifle adjustments.  No scuff of boots.  No alarms.  Just a distant slam of a door from above.  If Lukin really did have cameras watching, then they’d already know he was free.  There was no time for inaction and second-guessing.

Bucky screwed his courage and pressed open the door – into an empty stairwell!

He took the stairs two and three at a time on his bare tiptoes, heading up (he didn’t even want to start to think about what might have been further down; he would have sworn he was being kept on the lowest level!).  

_Why haven’t I run into any resistance yet?  Where are the guards?  Are they that short-staffed?_

_Don’t question it – you’ll just waste time!  Just go fast, and go quiet!_

He raced upwards, from -2, to -1, past 0, and dropped to a halt at the floor marked 1:  Movement and breathing. So that’s where they were; milling around and waiting for him.  Bucky cast his eyes around the concrete chute of the stairwell.  Old construction, heavy metal railings and thick, crack-free walls.  There was no way Lukin could have hidden even a miniaturized a camera in here without him spotting it - they might know he was coming, but they may not know he was there yet.   
  
Silently, Bucky continued up another two floors.  Judging from the landings in the stairwell and the ceiling heights in the basement, each story was probably no more than eight to ten feet high.  They probably wouldn’t expect him making a break for it on the third story, and he could definitely make a jump of twenty feet and keep going after what they’d done to him.  

Still, Bucky paused, listening at the door.  Quiet.  _Good_.  
  
Bucky flattened himself alongside the door and gingerly opened it.  When no voices or shots welcomed him, he peered out. 

His heart sung.  The hallway to the right ended in a large window, with honest-to-God real sunlight streaming through it!

Bucky ran for it.  It didn’t matter what was outside; it really didn’t matter how far the drop was: this was his chance.  He pushed himself as fast as he could, hurtling down the hallway to build up as much momentum as he could.  Then, right before impact, he squeezed his eyes shut, threw his left arm up in front of his face, flexed the thorny ridges along his elbow, and dove.  

Glass shattered around him and suddenly he was falling; frigid air whipping around him.  

Panic seized him.  The train – the chasm - _not again!_

By the time he wrenched his eyes open, the ground – white! \- was nearly on him, and he instinctively rolled.  

Soft, powdery snow cushioned his impact, and Bucky rolled to his feet in one smooth movement to assess his surroundings.

Snow.  Grey, cloud-laden skies the same color as the ground as far as he could see, with only the cut of a dark mountain to distinguish the horizon in the far distance.  Howling, angry winds slammed unforgivingly against his naked flesh.  

A sudden sharp pain flared in his right shoulder the same moment he heard a crack of a rifle.  

_No!_

He spun, raising his left arm as three more darts hit him along the side.  He swayed on his feet as he caught – too late – the glint of a scope on the roof of the building and guard towers to either side of the front façade.  But there – outside the front door: a vehicle!

Bucky clenched his teeth and lurched towards the snow-mobile.  He couldn’t give up now. 

It felt more like falling and catching himself on his feet than running.  It was just fifty yards away.  If he could make it – 

THWIP-THWIP

Two more darts hit him square in the back, the force sending him sprawling face-first into the thick snow.  The chill set on him immediately like starving dogs on a piece of meat.  

“ _C’mon, Buck.  You gotta get up.”_ The whistling wind crystallized into a wheedling voice.

“Steve…” Bucky slurred at the shimmery, skinny figure standing in front of him.  “Everythin’s all swimmy.”  
  
“Yeah Tommy Sullivan, the rat bastard, had a brick.  Got you pretty good but I got him back, Buck, before he could hit ya again.  Trash can lid.” Steve mimed an over-head slam.  “They’re gone now, but you gotta get up.  Ma says if you got a concussion you can’t sleep.”  

Bucky struggled fruitlessly, his limbs felt so heavy, and everything was so white… “’m sorry, Steve.  I can’t move..”

Steve’s little face screwed into a scowl “Buck, you’re better’n that.  You gotta get up.  You can’t sleep now.”  
  
He just said that, didn’t he?  And why was it winter?  This happened in the Spring – this… this already happened.  

Bucky’s eyes fluttered, but his body might as well have been made of lead, and the white walls around him – _snow_ , a part of his mind supplied – were impossibly high and the cold was an anchor preventing him from even trying to lift his limbs.  

Hazy shadows rippled around him, crunching the snow.  

“Steve… ‘msorry… can’t…” 

<”What is he saying?”>  
  
<”It does not matter.  He is merely talking in his sleep.”>  
  
Firm hands gripped him under his armpits, and he felt the snow churning beneath him.  

<”Are you certain he is out?  You heard what he did to-”>  
  
<“Yes.  Last time he had this much, he was out for six hours.  I was there.  They got his dosage down to a science when they first got him.  They had to keep him under for a while between cryo and these tranqs while Lukin prepared for him.” >

Bucky struggled to keep his thoughts from flying apart or sending him backwards in time once more.  This was Hydra.  They still had him, and Steve was somewhere else, far away from this… _Focus!_   He wasn’t unconscious!  He couldn’t move, he could barely think, but he was awake, and he was going to stay that way!

The soft snow gave way to hard flooring, another pair of hands lifted his legs off of the ground as the procession continued, the hallway shimmering around him like paint in a water glass – _like when Steve painted at the window, and dipped his brushes in the water –_ Focus!

Six hours: they said last time he had this dosage he was unconscious for six hours.  That meant he was getting stronger.  He wasn’t done changing yet; his system was still ramping up.  Even if he failed this time, there could be a next time – use what they’re doing to him against them – resist!

Another pair of bootsteps joined the chorus.  <”How far did he make it?”> _Lukin._

<“Just outside the facility, sir.  The watchtowers caught him before he made it any further.”>

<”Good.  I’ll want you, Kozlov, and Vasiliev to report for debriefing after he’s been returned to his cell.   I will be implementing new protocol.”>  
  
<”Sir… I… Kozlov and Vasiliev….”>  
  
If Bucky had control of his facial muscles, he would have smiled wickedly.  
  
<“They didn’t make it?”> Lukin sounded surprised.  _Good_.   <“Hm.  Well, Kozlov had a bad habit of rattling the cage of the zoo.  It is a shame about Vasiliev: he showed potential.  But it makes no difference.  I will want a full report.”>

<“Yes sir.”>

<”Return him to his cell.  It does not need to hold him for much longer.”>  
  
<”You were able to reach an accord with him, then?”>

 _The fuck?_  
  
<”My business with Fairbanks is none of your concern.  You have your orders.”>  There was a snap in Lukin’s voice.  

<“Yes sir.”>  
  
The world twisted sideways, and the next thing Bucky knew he was slamming into something hard and unforgiving.  The coppery stench of blood assaulted his nose, and his spotty vision revealed the now familiar cell between flashes of light and darkness.  The bodies were gone, but large bloodstains remained as a reminder, or perhaps a warning, to the remaining guards. 

As he lay there, Bucky distantly began to realize he wasn’t alone.  One of the chairs had been pulled closer to the bars, and a square figure sat, regarding him.  The hazy shadow breathed evenly, and he began to make out steepled fingers and a steely gaze.  Lukin had remained behind.  

Bucky could have feigned unconsciousness longer, perpetuated their belief about how effective the tranquilizers were, but this was the first opportunity he’d had to speak to the man in over a month.  Worry chewed at him that Lukin was going to leave once he had taken inventory of his changes for himself.  

Bucky summoned his strength, managing to get an elbow under himself to turn his head and level a glare at Lukin.

His lip quirked into the barest hint of a smile, as if Bucky had answered a question for him.  “Now you understand: even if you get free, you have nowhere to go.”

“Whu – was it worth the lives of four men to teach me that lesson?” Bucky forced his words out evenly, swallowing the quaver that threatened to betray how weak he still felt. 

“You will pay me back in time.  I consider you an investment, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Don’t play the stock market any time soon,”  Bucky scowled.  

“Still making jokes?  Perhaps you need some more time to think on your lack of options.”

“Leave me here as long as you want,” Bucky felt his strength returning more with each word, fueled by his anger “I will _never_ work for you.” 

“Never is a very long time, Sergeant Barnes, and we have only just begun.”  Lukin stood with precise, deliberate movements, returning the chair to the side of the room.  

“Not going to beat me this time, Lukin?  You seemed to enjoy that last time.”  
  
“As did you, Mr. Barnes.  Sometimes a job requires more precision than a hammer.”  He walked toward the door.

Bucky had to force himself to bite back any words to draw Lukin back.  He had already given too much away with his need for conversation; and for what?  So Lukin could taunt him some more?  He was a damn idiot.  

Lukin paused momentarily at the door, giving Bucky one last opportunity to take the bait.  But when Bucky managed to keep his yap shut with an amazing effort of will, Lukin snorted derisively, opened the door, and shut off the light once more.  “Good night, Sergeant.”

The door fell closed with a heavy bang.

Left alone in the cover of darkness, Bucky dropped the façade of bravado and let his body fall boneless against the concrete.  Between the remnant tranquilizers and the exertion, he was more exhausted than he had let on.  Yet, as he allowed himself to relax, arousal stirred once more.  _Fuck, how did he almost forget how close he was to heat?_   His face contorted into a grimace; after that stunt he knew it was only a matter of days, at best, until he was begging them to satisfy his need once more. 

But wait: what was that?  Fuzzy shapes of dark against darker appeared like visual static in the blackness.  Bucky squinted, straining his eyes until he could make out the faint outline of the bars of his cell and the cracks in the concrete in front of his nose.  His lips curled into a smile: he was getting stronger in ways Lukin had no idea of.  

*

Over the next couple of days, Bucky didn’t know which was worse: the gradual, inevitable building desire, knowing the fate that awaited him when he couldn’t hold himself back any more, or the ominous pounding of construction noises that had filled the complex.  Mmaybe it had nothing to do with him, but after Lukin’s conversation about not needing the cell to hold him much longer, Bucky’s mind was conjuring up all kinds of worst case scenarios when it wasn’t fixating on getting filled from both ends.

*

He had no plan this time, the cold realization settled on him like the latest shiver of desire.  

He held off as long as he could, for pride and the futile notion that maybe he could come up with something before the heat robbed him of coherent thought.  But even now, he was far enough along that there was little room for measured planning between invasive fantasies.  

His only plan was to survive long enough to make another plan.  It’s what Steve would want, wasn’t it?  

*

It hit him full force by the time he made his 46th tally mark.  His world narrowed down to a pinpoint of need, his hunger consuming all rational thought.  

This time the guards didn’t take any chances, and Bucky was desperate enough to go along with it.  At least they didn’t make him beg for it.  Instead, the first guard barked orders for him to stick his tail through the bars.  When Bucky obliged, it was jerked back hard – slamming Bucky’s ass against the unforgiving steel and shaking loose a loud, humiliating moan.  A masked guard kept a rifle trained on him from six feet away while the other guard fucked him through the bars.  

Bucky hated that he didn’t care at the time to even consider fighting; desperate enough to follow orders to feel the fullness of a cock deep inside him, the addictive burn as he was stretched, and the perfect rush of an orgasm and the life-giving energy that came with it.  

He pulled away, gasping, as soon as the guard came, and they made no effort to pull him back for more.  And for better or for worse, after feeding on just one orgasm, there was no echo of pleasure that twisted his body any further: just the crash of sobriety and shame.  Bucky didn’t hate himself any less on his fourth time getting fucked in their capture than he had the first time when Lukin’s men had raped him on the table.  It didn’t matter that this time there was no teasing, no jeering: just fucking him like it was his job which – hell – it probably was.   
  
“Good.  You behave yourself, and you get privilege back.” The guard said as he exited, leaving the light on in his absence as if he were leaving money on the nightstand.  

This was his life now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional shout-out of thanks from Araniaart to Kamiki for extra work and collaboration here - always a huge source of inspiration, support, ideas, tips, and writing help.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: artwork at the end of this chapter includes non-erect nudity

The only thing more ominous than the sounds of construction echoing through the walls of the Hydra base was when the noise finally stopped.

Bucky could feel that something was coming.  Anxiety squirmed around inside him like an eel, and he swore that he even heard changes in the footstep patterns of the guards around the facility.  What he didn’t expect was for that “something” to take the form of a man in his sixties wearing a checkered suit.  Grey hair brushed his temple from underneath a simple wide-brimmed fedora, and there wasn’t a speck of dirt on his brown loafers.  He came unarmed, carrying only a simple leather satchel and the wafting scent of… _hamburgers_?  

Bucky’s suspicions were immediately on edge as he drew back to the furthest corner of his cell and crouched underneath the bench, lips instinctively pulling back from his teeth.  He was acutely aware of how much he resembled a scared animal, but he was past the point of giving a shit.  In the 50 tally marks he’d been down here, his hair had grown past his ears, long enough to form greasy mats, his facial hair was well past the point of stubble, and his last escape attempt had done his hygiene no favors. 

Petrov, the barrel-chested guard, assisted the older man down the short flight of stairs that led into his cellar and placed one of the chairs from the wall five feet from the bars of his cell.  “General Lukin advises you stay at least this far from the cell,” Petrov said as he eyed Bucky suspiciously.

“Thank you, Mr. Petrov, but that will be all.” The man responded in perfect American English as he removed his hat as if he were entering someone’s fucking house.

“But sir-“

“I will be fine.  Thank you.” The stranger said with casual authority.

Petrov nodded tightly before turning and leaving the man alone in the cellar.

The man walked past the chair without hesitating and right up to the bars of the cell before moving gingerly to a crouch. 

Bucky’s tail swished anxiously behind him, indecision rooting him to the spot.  He was vulnerable; Bucky could probably cross the cell and tear this guy’s throat out before the old man could get to his feet.  But what if – _what if_ – this was some kind of ambassador negotiating for his release, or at least some kind of potential ally?  Maybe he had finally made himself enough of a pain in the ass for Lukin that the cost of keeping him outweighed the potential reward.   Bucky wasn’t sure how a thought that optimistic could still live in his brain.  
  
“They haven’t been treating you very well, have they?”  The man’s voice interrupted Bucky’s dithering. “Look at you: dirty, skinny, and scared.  It’s all right; I know what you are.  You can come out from under there,” he coaxed him like a stray cat.  
  
Bucky hesitated for a moment before he found himself tentatively sliding out from beneath the bench, surprised that he still had enough shame left in his bones to stay low to the ground to cover his nakedness.  While the man’s eyes stayed on him as he moved, obviously taking in his features, they held none of the greedy possessiveness that Lukin’s did when he examined him like his spoils of war.  Instead, there was a shimmer of wonder.  Bucky wasn’t sure if that was any better, but least he wasn’t trying to hide the fact he was staring.  

The older gentleman gave Bucky a warm, open smile.  “It is a genuine pleasure to meet you… it’s James, isn’t it?  Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Elliott Fairbanks, and I’m here to help you.  And by the looks of things, you certainly need it.  Here, you must be hungry.”  Fairbanks pulled a brown paper bag from his satchel and slid it between the bars.

It took every ounce of his willpower to keep himself from outright grabbing the bag and stuffing its contents in his mouth.  Still, suspicion clawed at his gut as much as the hunger.  Bucky’s stomach gave an audible growl as the scent of cooked meat filled his nose and he had to wipe his lips before the drool gave away how much his mouth was watering.   “If you’re really here to help me, why the hell did Lukin let you in the front door?”  
  
“I understand your suspicion, but I know you are a smart man. If I were to wish you harm, which I assure you I do not, we both know that I wouldn’t need to use food to do so.  So please, there is no reason to starve yourself and do the General’s torture for him.  It is just a hamburger.”  Fairbanks spread his hands, revealing old scarring on his palms.  “When I fought in the Great War, there was nothing I would have paid more for.  Have a real meal, and allow me to tell you a story.”

His arm darted out and grabbed the bag, tearing into it to find a real fucking hamburger wrapped in greasy paper and a handful of only slightly soggy fries.  He could have cried.  As he took his first bite of juicy, mustardy home, he only distantly noticed Fairbanks get to his feet and slide the chair a little closer to take a seat with the sigh of the elderly.  It was so fucking good; Bucky had nearly forgotten what real food tasted like.  He should have eaten slowly, relishing the full-mouthed flavor of the savory grease of the meat, the sharp and salty pickles and onions, and perfectly yeasty roll.  But after the first bite, he couldn’t help but wolf it down in a matter of seconds.

“I’m willing to wager that General Lukin has been keeping you in the dark in more than just the physical sense, James.  I see no benefit to keeping you from the truth, so allow me to begin by giving you a promise: I will not lie to you.”  
  
Warily, Bucky looked up from the now-empty burger wrapping and wiped at his mouth.  That didn’t sound at all like the start of a prisoner release; it sounded like the other half of the Mutt and Jeff* routine.  It was only then that he realized that Fairbanks had moved out of reach; his brief window of opportunity had closed.  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” he scowled.

“You wish to cut past the pleasantries?  By all means.  By ‘them’ I presume you mean Hydra, although you may find that that allegiance is a grayer area than you were accustomed to when fighting The Red Skull’s forces.”

“And here I thought you said you were here to help me.  So much for not telling any lies there, George Washington.  Are you even American or is that accent part of the act, too?”  
  
“I haven’t lied to you, James,” he said earnestly.  “General Lukin’s only concern was keeping you alive, albeit just barely, and has been grasping about in the dark as far as how to deal with and take care of you.  I, however, am very much invested in your wellbeing.” Fairbanks straightened his tie, “And yes, I am an American.  I worked for the Office of Strategic Services, although you may find that that allegiance has dirtier hands than Hydra.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m gonna call bullshit on you right there.  You said worked for: past tense.  What happened?”  Bucky crossed his arms with a sneer, “They fire your traitorous ass?”

“Quite the opposite; I received a Bronze Star at the end of my service.  I no longer work for them because there is no longer an OSS.  The war is over, Sergeant Barnes.”  Fairbanks paused for a moment, looking down and whetting his lips.  “I’m afraid to tell you, but you had been kept under sedation until Lukin was confident that he could resuscitate you without further injury… and could contain you.  You were not originally his project, as I’m certain you already surmised.  He found you near the end of January of 1945.  It is now December.”  
  
The room spun.  _December_?  It couldn’t be.  Bucky’s eyes went to the useless collection of tally marks under his bench.  He’d been so fucking stupid; he’d thought maybe Lukin had had him a couple of weeks at best before he woke up, but they had mentioned the tranquilizers and cryo and… 

Eleven Months.  

Eleven months and he hadn’t been rescued.  Of course Steve and everyone else thought he was dead; he did too fucking good of a job trying to kill himself.  

_No one’s coming for you_ reiterated in his head like a dirge. 

_No._   Just because he said he wasn’t going to lie didn’t mean anything.  He was _Hydra_.  “Bullshit,” Bucky seethed.  “You’re a fucking liar.”  

“I was afraid you might say that, so I came prepared.”  Bucky tensed as Fairbanks reached into his jacket pocket, but a moment later he withdrew a folded newspaper.  “This one is a little older, but I figured it would catch your interest.”

Bucky snatched the copy of _The New York Times_ as Fairbanks slid it under the bars, eyes strafing the date – Tuesday May 8, 1945 – before moving to the headline splashed across the top:  
  
THE WAR IN EUROPE IS ENDED!  
SURRENDER IS UNCONDITIONAL;  
V-E WILL BE PROCLAIMED TODAY;  
OUR TROOPS ON OKINAWA GAIN  
  
He swallowed.  There it was: real as anything in his hands.  He knew the Times like he knew his ma’s face, and the smell, the texture, the way the ink rubbed just so against the pad of his thumb… It felt like someone carved him out with a scoop.  

“As I said, James, the war is over.  We won.”  
  
And just like that, anger flooded him, reanimating him.  “ _We_?!” Bucky snarled, the spiny protrusions along Bucky’s tail and arm flaring.  “You have no right to say you’re one of us, you fucking traitor!  You’re the ones that were defeated!  Just because you were hiding within our borders and infiltrating our organizations doesn’t make you one of us!” 

“Hydra is so well-spread because Hydra is much older than The Red Skull, but you already knew that.  And yet you still insist on conflating Hydra with the Nazis.  First of all, you’re thinking of Schmidt, and while he worked within the Nazi party, he was undermining it from within.”

“Fuck, that’s all you needed to say to prove my point!” he said, jabbing a finger accusatorily in Fairbanks’s direction.  “Red Skull was a fucking madman, and here you are, defending him!”  
  
“No, I am merely correcting you.  Hydra are not Nazis, The Red Skull is dead, and you will not see me grieving.  He grew too concerned with power for himself and hijacked our organization for his own self-aggrandizement.”  Fairbanks didn’t hide his irritation.  “I can understand your confusion, but the real Hydra seeks to bring order back to a chaotic world.  Our government played no small part in contributing to that chaos, James.  Do you really think Hydra is so much worse than the US Government?”

Bucky spluttered.  “What a fucking ridiculous question.  I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you,” Bucky grumbled with a shake of his head.  Arguing with an octo-nazi?  What was the fucking point?  

“Our own country is not so innocent, James.  You hardly know our true goals, just the face of a madman that, frankly, did our cause more harm than good.  It will take us decades to undo the damage he has done to our name.”  He took a breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  “The American government, on the other hand, did things during the war that Hydra had nothing to do with, and many of our members fought against.  The US had its own internment camps, for example.  Surely, you knew about those seeing as you fought side by side with a man who was interred in one.  Loyal citizens locked up in their own country, their businesses and possessions stolen from them.”  Fairbanks shook his head.

“You show me a perfect country and I’ll show you the door to its sound stage.” Bucky scowled, “It ain’t about every decision the country’s leaders do – it’s about the spirit of the nation.  Yeah, that was a shitty fucking thing they did, but if you think that Hydra’s a better alternative, then you’re crazier than Red Skull.”  
  
“That is hardly the only example of America’s war crimes, and no one will see justice for what they did to ‘end’ the war.  The war in the Pacific Theater was already coming to a close, but the US got a shiny new weapon out of a secret research facility they felt the need to demonstrate.  In August, we dropped not one, but two _atomic bombs_ on the civilian cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”

Bucky did everything he could to ignore the squirming feeling in his gut as he gave Fairbanks a dramatic roll of his eyes.  He couldn’t let him see how well targeted that gut-punch of a revelation had been.  He couldn’t let his words get into his head.  

Fairbanks continued, driven, “The bombs each had the destructive power of twenty _thousand_ tons of TNT, and leveled the cities.  Over a hundred thousand men, women and children were killed instantaneously, and thousands are still dying from the poison it released.  The Red Skull may have gone mad with power and Erskine’s faulty serum, but the rest of Hydra never wished to see the world destroyed.  We wish to see it _unified_.”

Bucky wanted to call bullshit on him again, but he had played enough poker to read that this was no bluff.  If his only defense was to force Fairbanks to show his hand, inevitably he’d produce another newspaper headline from his coat and prove Bucky had prejudged the US’s actions to be so terrible that his only explanation was that it was a lie.  

Bucky wasn’t about to fold.  “The government does something you don’t like so you tuck tail and turn to traitor?  If you’re trying to sell me that Hydra horseshit as chocolate, I’m going to shove it down your throat.”

Fairbanks shifted positions in his chair.  “Why don’t we get to know each other a little better, James.  Then perhaps you’ll understand the importance of what we’re doing here.”  

_God, did they have to?_  Bucky was almost ready to go back to solitary confinement.  “You’ve got a captive audience.” Bucky replied sardonically as he rose to his feet and went back to lay down on his bench, demonstrating his disinterest.  

Fairbanks continued, nonplussed.  “I come from a family who can claim a long history with the organization, and it was thanks to those ties that I had the fortune of being able to travel to Prague when I was a young man to study with Karl Jaenig.”

Ice water ran down Bucky’s spine at the mention of Jaenig’s name, and his eyes snapped back to Fairbanks.  

“Ah yes, I see you know the name.  I figured you might after I heard of your detour through Prague.  It is a pity that Karl died many years ago; Leopold never had quite the same appreciation for tradition as his grandfather.  Although Karl never figured out how to perfect the ritual, either.”  Fairbanks clucked his tongue.  “Then again, he did not have the benefit of an ancient relic that could bridge dimensions to power it.” 

Bucky sat up again, knowing full well he was taking the bait that Fairbanks was obviously leaving for him, but it had not occurred to him that this old man might know a great deal more than Lukin about what had been done to him.  

“But I get ahead of myself.  Did you know that Jaenig was a man of the cloth as well as a spiritualist?  We had great discussions about how the greater cosmology is so much more than mere religion or “magic”, but a primitive way of attempting to describe what we now know as science and physics.  Man has been trying to unveil the secrets of the universe for centuries as a way to better ourselves and bring ourselves to the next stage of human evolution.  Jaenig and I sought to aide Hydra in bringing about a cultural change: a true age of enlightenment: post war, post oppression.”  
  
God, more of their fucking dogma?  Bucky groaned inwardly, but Fairbanks powered on, hardly taking a breath as he continued to speak.  

“But then along came the Great War.  I saw how the horrors of man and petty politics can ravage countries, take the lives of good men, and how charismatic politicians can sway the masses to do horrible things.  I have seen war, two of them now, and I have no taste to see a third.” 

Fairbanks cleared his throat, shaking free the gravel that had collected in his voice and continued, impassioned, “What we are trying to do is not wage war: why waste the lives of thousands of good men when you can target those true cancers of humanity and remove them like a surgeon?  This is why the strategy that the United States is forwarding disgusts me: they take the lives of hundreds of thousands of innocent lives: so many people whose potential we will never see or know.  This is the way the American Government sees fit to rule: to bully the other nations of the world into obedience as the sole wielders of this super-weapon.  The United States does not seek to unify, they seek to divide and rule.  Hydra seeks to erase borders and end conflict once and for all to unite the human race under one flag, one _species_.”  He looked to Bucky with a small shrug, “Well, I suppose even if you are no longer a part of the human species, I presume that you still wish the best for it.”  
  
Bucky set his jaw and glared at Fairbanks, unimpressed.  “That’s a mighty fancy way of saying that Hydra’s an evil organization that wants to rule the world.  Because, see, you say all of this, but Hydra’s the one that turned me into this.  Sell it how you want, you’re still killing people to make demons and you’re here trying to call yourselves the good guys?  You wanna prove otherwise?  How about you turn me back, asshole.  I never asked for this.”  As he spoke, fear and anger stole his composure, his voice cracking into a plaintive squawk.  

Fairbanks leaned forward with a sympathetic frown, his elbows on his knees.  “It was Zola who did this to you under Schmidt’s supervision.  He increased the scale of the project beyond anything Jaenig ever attempted, let alone conceived.  But, as they say, the damage is already done.  I cannot undo what was done to you, but I can redirect it and give you a purpose: help you do good in the world.  It is pointless to look back, James.  We must take what we are given and move forward.”

Bucky shook his head wryly.  “Yeah, I thought not.”   
  
“Barring the impossible, what is it exactly that you want, James?” Fairbanks asked simply. 

Bucky snorted in surprise.  “You’re kidding, right?  How about my freedom?”

Fairbank’s mouth twisted wryly.  “Your fellow Americans would certainly not welcome you back with open arms like this.”  He said with a pointed glance at Bucky’s monstrous arm.  “What do you expect?  Go back to, where was it, Brooklyn?  Get a company job?”  He shook his head with a humorless laugh.  “Even if you could manage some sort of disguise – and that’s assuming your final form does not ultimately make that impossible – then your friends, your family, and even your government would not look favorably on what it is you need to do to keep yourself alive.  How long do you really think you could keep your nature secret?”

Bucky shook his head tightly, refusing to look Fairbanks in the eye.  Anything was better than being locked up here.  He refused to believe there wasn’t some kind of cure.  _Why?  Because otherwise things really are hopeless?  Because he’s right: there is no future for you looking like this?  It was hard enough keeping a tail under wraps, and now I’ve got horns, fangs, and this freakish arm.  And fuck, he was right: you kept getting worse and who knows how bad it’s gonna get?  “_ I’d rather live like a hobo under a bridge, eating garbage and blowing fairies by the docks than work for you.”  He said with steel in his voice. 

“But that’s the thing, James.  For all intents and purposes, working with me _is_ working for the American Government.  Just a branch that is willing to work with your…” he eyed Bucky’s form, “unique circumstances.”

“The moment whoever you’re working for finds out you’re Hydra, they’ll string you up.” Bucky said nastily.

Fairbanks smiled, wordlessly withdrawing a book from his satchel bound in leather the color of blood and adorned only with a black pentragram on the cover. 

Bucky was on his feet in an instant.  He knew that book.  It had been burned into his mind since Kreischberg when Zola had used it for the damn ritual.  He had searched for it for over a year.  That book was possibly the only key to finding out exactly what was done to him and how to fix it.  Or, at the very least, maybe it could spell out what it all meant, how he could deal with it, and any – fuck- rules? he really needed to know.  The last he had heard, Zola had it when they launched their mission to apprehend him from that damn train.  “How did you get that?” Bucky breathed.  Surely, Steve and the rest of the Howlies had finished the mission... right?  “Wasn’t Zola caught?”  

“Oh yes,” Fairbanks said.  “And he is now alive and well, and working for the US Government.  He’s not permitted to leave the country just yet, but he got quite the job offer after the war ended.  Many of the most brilliant minds of Hydra and Nazi Germany got new positions working for the US after the war ended.  They called it ‘Operation Paperclip.’”  

Bucky tasted bile.  All that damn work.  All those lives lost, and the US fucking offered those war criminals _jobs_?

“As I said, James.  We’re all on the same team here.”                                                                                                                                              

Sounded more like the corruption went deeper than he thought. How many more Hydra members were out there if fuckers like this had embedded themselves in the government like ticks, getting reprieves for monsters like Zola?  “If that’s the case, seems like Lukin missed the memo.” 

Fairbanks shook his head regretfully, “There is a reason that Lukin was not able to simply get the book directly from Zola.  You know as well as I do that he was grasping at straws with how to handle you; he only knew the very basics of Zola’s thesis.  Zola deliberately kept the details close to the breast.”  He gave the cover a few taps.  “But I am certain you have questions about being a succubus.  I have the book; I have answers.”  

Whoa.  Hold up.  Images of naked women cascaded through Bucky’s mind.  Twelve-year-old Bucky Barnes had been quite proud of his discovery of naughty woodblock prints innocuously located in the library’s Biblical studies and classical literature sections of all places.  “Succubus?  Do I look like a woman to you?!  You mean incubus, right?”  He at least knew _that_.  Some of the tension uncoiled from Bucky’s shoulders; maybe this asshole didn’t know as much as he was pretending to.  Maybe that meant things weren’t as bad as he was implying.

“The difference between succubi and incubi is not what is between their legs, but in how they garnish their energy.”  

Bucky pursed his lips, tail squirming.  Fairbanks was baiting him, but answers he’d been craving could be his if he just asked.  He swallowed a bit of his pride.  “Enlighten me, Professor.” He probed, adding a dash of defensive sarcasm. 

But Fairbanks smiled, indulging, “All demons feed on the energy released when their sexual partner orgasms: succubi feed while being penetrated, and incubi while penetrating.  There can be male succubi and female incubi.”  Fairbanks opened the book and turned it to show Bucky a pair of illustrations drawn in brown ink on yellowed, aging paper.  A simple line drawing of a nude man with short horns and claws was on one side of the page, bent over double with another man standing behind him.  On the other page, a woman with a long snakelike tongue and spade-tipped tail crouched over another woman with her tongue lapping at her crudely drawn sex.  They looked like drawings from some kind of medieval manuscript, complete with awkward proportions, stiff poses, and almost comical expressions.  “Some demons even walk the line between genders.”  

Bucky didn’t know what he wanted to hear, but that sure as hell wasn’t it.  He frowned.  “What the hell, then why?  Why am I a succubus?  Did Zola _choose_ that, the sick sonnuva bitch?”  
  
He shook his head.  “I know of only one ritual to create a demon.  Even the book does not have an answer as to why it might sometimes create succubi, and sometimes it creates incubi.”

“I thought you said this book had answers.”

“Well, one theory is that it depends on the individual who completes the ritual: that men tend to create succubi and women tend to create incubi.  Or maybe there is some inherent quality of the demon-to-be.  Or perhaps it is purely random.  But come now, James, there is much I can tell you if you ask the right questions.  This is your opportunity: allow me to prove my good will to you.”

Fairbanks could have opened the door to the cell and Bucky still wouldn’t be convinced that there was an ounce of good will in the man’s bones.  But he couldn’t pass up the chance to answer at least a few questions that had been boiling in his mind for the better part of a year, even if he was going to take any answer with a grain of salt.  “Aren’t succubi supposed to drain souls or something?”  Guilt squirmed in his stomach as he thought about what he’d read of succubi stealing years from mens’ lives and the times he’d been with unsuspecting civilians during the war, or worse, Steve.

Fairbanks chuckled, openly delighted.  “You drain energy, not ‘life force’ – if there even really is such a thing.”

Bucky scowled, “What the hell’s the difference?  I mean, I guess what I’m trying to ask is am I hurting them?”   
  
“There we go, that’s a good question.  Your feeding should cause no permanent damage to your partners, at least nothing beyond what driving someone to physical exhaustion can cause.  In the elderly or sick, perhaps, you could make them more susceptible to disease or strain an already weakened heart.  I could go on about the backwards medieval notions of the correlation between sex and death, but I will not bore you.”  

So, up side: Steve was fine.  Down side: so were all the Hydra assholes.  At least it was an answer, and Bucky was inclined to believe this one.  He whet his lips, staring down at the tail wrapped around his knees.  One big question had been looming in his mind since he grew it: “So tell me, _Elliot_ , how bad is it gonna get?  What am I turning into?”  
  
“I had a feeling you would ask that.  I know the ambiguity must be stressful for you: worrying about changing more each time you feed.  Unfortunately, while I genuinely wish I knew, I do not have a concrete answer for you.  The best I can offer is that from what I have read, it depends on the individual, and there can be a great deal of variation.  There are not even any particular physical characteristics that distinguish succubi from incubi.  The only correlation seems to be that the more powerful the demon, the more changed they tend to be.  Some demons wind up hardly distinguishable from normal men or women.  Others, well...” Fairbanks trailed off with a shrug.

Fantastic.  Bucky’s active imagination enthusiastically supplied the mental image of what he might look like with the texture of his arm all over his body.  Bucky didn’t bother to hide his scowl or the shudder that ran through his body.  Jarred, Bucky murmured quietly, “So that’s it, then?  I’m going to keep changing more and more until I’m some kinda horrific monster?”

“We cannot change you back, James, but we are looking into ways to stabilize you.”  Bucky’s eyes snapped up, but skepticism tightened his expression.  “But regardless,” Fairbanks continued softly, “we are the ones that can nurture you and what it is that you have become.”

Bucky’s remaining patience evaporated.  “What it is I have become?” he echoed, incredulous.  “You’re the ones who turned me into this, into a fucking _succubus_.  If there’s a reason I can’t go home, it’s because of you and your fucking cultist buddies!  If you actually think for an instant that I’m going to work with you Nazi FUCKS then you are going to be in for a fucking unpleasant surprise!”

Fairbanks sighed, rising to his feet and heading to the door.  “I know it’s easier for you to just continue to stubbornly insist that we’re the bad guys here, but believe me when I say that I have both of our best interests at heart.  Trust me, it will be easier on you the sooner you learn to work with us rather than against us.”  
  
“Yeah well, if you guys are so great, how about some fucking clothes?!” Bucky called after him.  
  
“As I said before, I believe in trade.” Fairbanks’s patience had dried up, replaced with exasperation.  _Good_.  “I have already been more than generous today.  If you want something more from us, you will have to learn to give.  Besides, I heard the last time you had clothing, you used it to try to escape, and we can’t be having that.  But we will speak again soon, James.”  He knocked twice on the door, which swung open for him a moment later.

Like hell he would.  Bucky balled up the paper bag and chucked it petulantly after Fairbanks, pleased when it bounced off of his shoulder.  

Fairbanks turned before leaving, with a look of perfectly crafted disappointment, like he was dealing with a child.  “Sooner or later, you will come around to understand your role here.  Most people never have the luxury of knowing their true purpose.  You, on the other hand, were crafted to help bring about a new, better world.  I almost envy you.”  

  
“Yeah, well, I’d be happy to trade, pal.” Bucky muttered under his breath as the door closed, leaving him alone once more.  Then, tentatively, he picked up the newspaper he’d been perhaps accidentally gifted with.  He hadn’t had anything to read in months, and greedily, he began to pour over the words as if they contained the gospel.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Mutt and Jeff routine is the “good cop/bad cop” routine popularized in an early 20th century comic strip before the modern term.
> 
> \--- 
> 
> Sorry this chapter is a little later than usual! I try to stay a few chapters ahead and Chapter 8 is turning into a real monster (*cough* pun intended ;) ). We're also participating in the Captain America Reverse Big Bang and doing extra steps of beta'ing this fic - so things might be paced a little slower than normal the next month or three, but good stuff is coming down the pipe, promise!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm moving the artwork to the ends of the chapter (and have reshuffled some of the art attached to previous chapters) so I can give nudity warnings if the art contains it, and so I can include art relevant to the chapter without spoiling it ahead of time :)

When the guards came to take away his newspaper, Bucky was prepared to fight them.  It didn’t matter than he had already read the thing ten times over, advertisements and all; it was _his_.  He still wasn’t convinced that somewhere, buried between tiny lines of text, there had to be some scrap of information about Steve he just hadn’t noticed yet.  

What he wasn’t prepared for, poised over his paper like a feral cat with teeth bared and tail lashing, was a barrage of tranq darts fired through the bars before they even gave him a damn chance.  

They hadn’t come for his paper.  They’d come for him. 

*

He woke up with a crash of fear, wrists and ankles bound tight and laying against something hard and flat.  _I’m back in the room!  No no no not again!  Get me out!_

His head reeled, eyes snapping open to reveal blurry swirls of institutional white clashing against industrial brown and gunmetal, like the world’s ugliest impressionist painting.  Electricity stung his nose and set the hairs of his arm on end, but it lacked the distinctive tinny shriek of the blue energy.  Instead, mundane yellow-white light hummed to the familiar tune of a gas generator.

His mind rebelled against the chaos, and he could all but feel the chemicals boiling away in his blood as consciousness swept in.  The swirling milieu of colors flowed into their proper positions, resolving into rounded walls, high ceilings, and a pair of armed guards shifting from foot to foot and raising rifles as he lifted his head.  

He’d been in this room before when he’d first woken up as Lukin’s prisoner, but now it was overlaid with images straight from his nightmares.  Cables arced around the room, secured to the catwalks with bulky ties imprinted with familiar glyphs.  Other sigils had been carved into the walls and a large runic circle surrounded the table he’d been bound to.  But the lectern parked just a foot or two out of reach to his left looked like it was borrowed from a school room, but draped in a velvety black cloth embroidered with silver runes and more geometric patterns.  It was a far cry from the exact replicas he’d seen, but the old missile silo now shared more in common with the ritual rooms in Kreischberg and Prague than it had any right to.

Apparently he had solved the mystery of the construction noises he’d been hearing over the past few days, but what the fuck was this all for?!  Hadn’t they done enough to him?  

But his seizing heart leapt when he noticed that the heavy steel manacles had been replaced with slimmer cuffs with tantalizingly thin chains.  He wasn’t about to question this oversight.  Ignoring the uneasy guards, Bucky tensed, straining against the bindings.  But his arms turned to spaghetti the moment he tried to exert any force against the handcuffs and the fine chain links jingled musically, mocking his efforts.  It didn’t make sense; he felt clear-headed and would have put money on the tranquilizers having run their course… until he noticed the intricate rune markings running along the delicate metalwork.  

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but hysterical exasperation had a way of shorting out his internal monologue.  No no no, surely that mystical mumbo jumbo writing wasn’t able to hold him still like- _like a demon_?  

The guards cautiously lowered their rifles as Bucky flailed arms and legs impotently against the bindings again, looking for all the world like a child throwing a tantrum.  

<”They’re holding him.”> One of them murmured to the other with raised brows.

<”All clear.”> The other spoke into a radio.  

The door opened, and Bucky hated that he felt relieved when he saw Fairbanks rather than Lukin enter.  

“Shhh, it’s all right.  There is no need to struggle,” Fairbanks eased as he crossed the room, stepping carefully over the chalk circle drawn across the floor.  “I know this probably feels frightening, but we spoke before of stabilizing you.  This is the first step.”

“Frightened?  I’m fucking pissed!  What the hell are _these_?!” Bucky demanded, giving the manacles another jangle. 

“I know that the large cuffs they had you in before must have been uncomfortable.  With these runic bindings, we can do the same job, holding you still for your own sake as well as ours – without causing you so much discomfort.”  

Bucky’s eyes narrowed.  “You must really think I’m an idiot.  You said yourself you and Jaenig never got the ritual to work, you just wanted to make sure these fucking runes held me.” 

“We’re both learning here, but that doesn’t make what I said any less true.  You must admit, however, that it is rather fascinating that these symbols can exert tangible power over you.  Your very nature has been changed, James.  When tested against a few guards who volunteered, the fine links snapped like a macaroni necklace – so you can’t blame our friends here for being a little jumpy when you came to.” Fairbanks said with a good-natured chuckle that made Bucky want to deck him.  

No, that’s not what Bucky wanted to hear, and he let the scowl on his face say as much.  He didn’t _feel_ like a different being.  _Didn’t he_?  Not in his mind, not in his fucking _heart_.  And yet, these symbols had sapped the strength out of his limbs like, well, _magic_.  Because somehow they knew he was different.  That he wasn’t even a fucking person anymore.  He was something to be contained and controlled.  

He didn’t even realize that his breathing had become shallow and ragged until Fairbanks patted his human arm.  “The world must seem like a terribly confusing place to you right now, James.  But I am hoping that after this procedure – this ritual –your heart will feel more at ease.”

Yeah, that didn’t sound ominous at all.  Bucky swallowed.  “Cut the crap, _Elliott_.  I know you’re sugar-coating this; what I don’t get is why the hell you’re bothering.”

“Tsk.  So much anger,” Fairbanks said with a shake of his head.  “But you are an unbound demon.  It is not a surprise that you feel so lost, fraying around the edges.  Had Zola’s initial ritual gone as planned, we likely would not need to do this, but then again, it is also possible that you would have been just another one of his many failed experiments.”

“Need to do _what_?” Bucky pressed, not giving a damn that Fairbanks was still goading him, or that it was still working.  “What do you mean ‘unbound’?”  

“I will need to make another incision to tie up these loose ends.” Fairbanks said as he withdrew a curved knife, shimmering black with etched runes carved into both the handle and the blade.  A shiver passed through Bucky at the sight of it, a sense of unease pulling at his core.  It felt _wrong_ somehow.  “Unfortunately, this time I’m afraid it will leave a mark.  Fortunately for you, however, it does not need to be nearly as large or complex as the one carved into your chest during the initial ritual.”  

A hazy, shimmery memory of a dream or a hallucination or some wicked marriage of the two flitted briefly through his mind of an enormous pig-man with sickled hooves, a crescent moon and a lot of pain.  Bucky felt like a frog on a dissection table; his tail coiled beneath him and he felt his breathing hitch.  What the hell was wrong with him?  He could keep his composure when he was beat half to fucking death in front of Lukin, but the moment Fairbanks pulled out this goddamned knife he felt like he was going to piss himself.  

“Just a simple pentagram,” Fairbanks soothed with the same detachment as if he was discussing dance steps, “But where…” 

Fairbanks inspected him like a piece of meat… or art.  “Ah, yes, of course.  Your arm is already an obvious tell of your nature, an additional scar there should not hamper your efficiency.”  

Bucky swallowed, “This will stabilize me?” God, was he so fucking desperate that he was looking to this traitor for reassurance?  

Fairbanks blinked, surprised, before meeting Bucky’s eyes.  _Did he fucking forget I could talk?_   “Well, this is the first step.”  He folded his face into a smile.  

Nope, that was a bad sign.  Fairbanks had promised to tell him the truth, and Bucky had yet to catch him in a lie, but this Hydra aristocrat had already proven skilled at the art of half-truths and evasions.  He knew, in the squirming pit of his stomach and his jangling nerves that this was going to be bad, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.  

Gingerly, Fairbanks pulled the crimson leatherbound book from his carrying case and placed it on the podium, licked a finger and began to flip pages.  Once more, Bucky struggled powerlessly against the restraints, but Fairbanks didn’t even look up.  

A part of Bucky just wanted to implore him to get whatever the hell he was doing over with.  The other seventy five percent wanted to crawl out of his skin and be anywhere but on this table.  _Now would be a really fucking good time to show up with the cavalry, Steve._  
  
“Aha, here we go.” He stopped, smoothing a page reverently. 

Fairbanks opened his mouth, and _sound_ poured forth.  There were words there, there had to be.  Fairbank’s lips formed concise syllables, but it was like there was water in Bucky’s ears distorting the noise into something that bore more resemblance to a babbling brook or looping hiss of a record left to play too long than anything comprehensible.  Bucky’s head reeled, his skin tingled, and his body went rigid: every muscle locking up as if he were one of the two-day-old corpses left on the battlefield.  

Distantly, he became aware of the hairs along his neck and arms standing on end before the electric hum of the machine increased in volume, weaving and melding with the incomprehensible incantation to form a maddening din in Bucky’s head.  

He knew it was coming, but Bucky still wasn’t prepared for the sickle brought to bear down along his twisted, demonic shoulder.  The arm had stopped bullets and looked more like ore than flesh, but the knife sliced into the hardened plating effortlessly; the skin seeming to part beneath the blade as if it were afraid of it.  And where the obsidian blade touched, searing agony lit up every nerve as if he were carving with solid acid rather than stone or steel.  He tried to scream, but his jaw had locked closed into a skeletal grimace, hot tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.  The nauseating sensation of wet, hot blood ran over his arm and gathered in the grooves as the knife drew along it.   _So it does bleed_.  Fairbanks moved agonizingly slow, chanting as he went, carving each line of a pentragram with the care of a surgeon.

Finally, mercifully, he fell silent and stepped back to appraise his work.  The pain had faded to a stinging throb, but his heart felt like a hummingbird trapped in his ribcage, and his body felt… poised, waiting.  _Waiting for what?!_

He didn’t have to wait long to find out.  Fairbanks drew a steadying breath before drawing the knife across his own hand, reopening an old scar.  He paused for only a moment, grimacing, before he met Bucky’s eyes and pressed his bleeding palm to the wound on Bucky’s shoulder.

His body seized.  Fresh agony poured through him, radiating out from the wound and spidering out to every limb; digging tendrils into his mind.  The hum of the generator reached a crescendo, reverberating through his core before an explosive pulse plunged Bucky’s mind into merciful unconsciousness.  

*

A dull ache in his shoulder gradually dredged Bucky begrudgingly back to awareness.  

He woke once more to his cheek pressed against a hard, cold surface (a sensation that was growing far too frequent), but as he dragged his limbs inward, there was no resistance or jangle of chains.  In fact, the only sound was the familiar buzzing of an overhead light.  Bucky groaned; he’d rather still be sleeping and dealing with the nightmares that weren’t real rather than the ones that were.  However, lying on the floor with his eyes shut was proving ineffective at either returning to sleep or silencing the litany of problems running through his mind.  When he risked cracking his eyes open, he confirmed that he was once more back in the cell that had been his home for the past two months, naked and alone.  

It was exactly as he has last seen it except, he realized in a flash, his newspaper was gone.  Disproportionate ire licked through him.  God _damn_ it.  He found himself rising to his knees and scouring the tiny space for somewhere the damn thing might be hiding, as if there was anywhere in the cell that could even conceal a newspaper, but to no avail.  The one thing he had claimed as _his_ , and it was gone.  It shouldn’t bother him so much, it really shouldn’t, but it had been like a tiny scrap of home in this prison.  Even reading through the listings of apartments for rent in Queens and Manhattan had brought him moments of invaluable escapism.  

_Breathe, Bucky._   He squeezed his eyes shut and ran fingers over the tally mark still carved into the wall beneath his bench.  _You’re alive.  You’re okay.  They did something, but you’re still here._

Oh crap.  What were they trying to do?!

Panic set in as he looked himself over and ran shaking hands over his head and other areas he couldn’t see.  But, he realized with a huff of relief, at least he didn’t appear to have changed any more, barring the fresh pentagram carved on his left shoulder.  Bucky gingerly ran the fingers of his human hand exploratively over the still stinging wound, the glaring red lines inset into the darkened and hardened flesh of his demon arm.  His fingers came back spotted with still-damp blood.

Fairbanks had said something about leaving a scar, hadn’t he?  But why hadn’t it healed like every other wound they’d inflicted on him?

Bucky wasn’t left long to wonder.  Moments later the heavy door opened with a pained squeal of metal on stone.  _Bastard Lukin had to have a camera hidden in here somewhere._ How or where he managed to do hide a video camera was still a matter of debate between Bucky’s lucid mind and his increasingly more vocal paranoid one.  

Fairbanks, flanked with another pair of guards, strode into the cellar with a spring in his step he had yet to see in the older man.  

_Well he certainly seems eager_ , Bucky thought with an uncomfortable twinge.

“Ah, good, you’re awake,” Fairbanks said in place of a greeting. “How are you feeling today, James?”  
  
Bucky scowled skeptically, “Like you give a damn.”  
  
“Oh I am quite serious in my interest.  Do you feel any different?”  Fairbanks came to stand within a few feet of the bars with his hands clasped behind his back.   
  
“Well, I dunno, Doc, my shoulder smarts something awful.  But then again, that tends to happen when someone goes at it with a knife.”  

Fairbanks’s eyes crinkled as he smiled.   “You seem to be feeling well enough for sarcasm, at least.  Although a wound remaining in place for a number of hours after it was inflicted is not typical of your condition, is it?”  
  
Bucky drummed his fingers on his thigh.  Fairbanks obviously knew why, he had implied as much before he carved into him, he was just waiting for him to ask.  “Okay.  Fine.  I’ll bite.  So tell me, why didn’t it heal?  Did you break my healing or something?”  
  
“Oh no, no.  Your accelerated healing should be functioning as usual, but the athame used to make the incisions were inscribed with runes that make it an anathema to your nature.  It will leave a scar, but the pain should fade over time.”

Bucky frowned.  Was Fairbanks deliberately using words like that to make him feel like an idiot?  “An ‘anathema to my nature?’”  Bucky shook his head.  “Look, why didn’t it leave a scar when Zola cut that huge thing into my chest, then?”

“It was the same tool used in the initial ritual, but, hm, how can I put this more plainly?  Ah: consider it a sort of demon-bane.  But at the time the wound was made, you were not yet a demon.  So the wound was able to heal once the ritual was completed.”  Fairbanks patronized.  

“Why.”  Bucky forced out, cutting past the details that he realized he was stalling with to avoiding asking what was really worrying him.  “What the hell was this all for?”  

“I’d like to enter the cell now.”  Fairbanks didn’t take his eyes off of Bucky as he spoke to the guards.  

The hell?

Startled, one of the guards turned to him.  “Sir, are you certain?  I know that Lukin said he expected evidence, but-“ 

“This is my decision.” Fairbanks interrupted with authority.

<”You heard him, Oleg.  Let him in, we’re just following orders,”> the second said as he readied his rifle to cover the door.

Bucky couldn’t believe his ears.  He got his legs under him, poised in a crouch and wasn’t about to let an opportunity pass him by; test of Fairbanks’s good will or not.  

Oleg shrugged and fished out his keys.  But before the door unlocked, Fairbanks caught Bucky’s eyes and raised his voice.  “Hold your position.  That’s an order.”

Bucky scoffed.  Yeah, like _hell_ he would.  He knew the routine well enough to know that there were tranqs in those rifles, and Fairbanks would make an excellent shield.  He poised to run, smirking as he caught Fairbanks taking a steadying breath before he stepped into the cell. 

But when the gate swung open, Bucky’s feet might as well have been rooted to the concrete.  

Panic welled in his chest.  His muscles tensed, and his breathing turned into quick, frantic intakes through his nose.  A moment later, the gate was swinging closed and locking Fairbanks in with him, the guards watching with a mix of readied concern and bafflement.

“At ease,” Fairbanks spoke with the same note of command, and Bucky felt the tension in his limbs snap.

He was on his feet in an instant, seizing Fairbanks by his lapels.  But despite the fact his brain was sending commands to his hands to sink his claws into the man’s throat, all they did was feebly shake him by his jacket.  

“Is that any way to greet a man who has brought you gifts?” Bucky saw straight through Fairbank’s blithe comment.  He had grown pale for just an instant, sweat beading over his forehead as Bucky had rushed him.  But now, _now_ , the confidence of a man who had just dodged a damned bullet shone in his eyes.  

“What the hell are you talking about?!  What did you do to me?!” Bucky spluttered. 

_This is what he was hoping for.  This was a fucking test!  Lukin was watching and Fairbanks needed to show he had confidence in what… whatever the FUCK he did to me to risk his own neck proving it worked._

“Your last request I believe was for clothing, was it not?” Fairbanks asked with infuriating joviality.  “Do you not still want them?  I can just as easily take them back with me, although I don’t believe we wear the same size trousers.” 

Bucky opened and closed his mouth before settling into a glower.  No, not fucking this time.  He wasn’t going to be bribed into complacency.  “I don’t give a damn about the damned _pants!_   Why can’t I… What the FUCK is going on?!”  He _knew_ that Fairbanks was Hydra – he had made no pretenses otherwise, so why the fuck did he still feel betrayed?  

The smile on Fairbanks face spread into a confidence that bordered on smugness. “It is a shame that you are still so angry, James.  I had honestly hoped that reinstating a bond would help you feel more at peace with your circumstance.  It is unfortunate that we had to go through this rigmarole to re-bind you and leave a permanent scar, but I’m afraid it was unavoidable.”

“Well you thought wrong,” Bucky growled. “Stop dancing: you don’t have the legs for it.  What the hell is a bond?”

“Mmm… well, that is a shame, but mostly for you, James.  Demons are creatures that by their very nature are designed to be bonded to a master: loyal and obedient servants.  I had been worried for a moment… well, it makes no difference.  The important thing here is that the ritual was successful: you are bound to me.  That is why you can not harm me and must do what I command.”

Bucky shoved back off of Fairbanks with a snarl.  “Well surprise, asshole.  If you wanted a loyal servant you should have gotten a fucking dog!  Because let me tell you, I’m _glad_ that whatever you thought was going to happen – turning me into some loyal slave?  It didn’t fucking work!”

Fairbanks raised an eyebrow.  “Perhaps I inferred the loyalty aspect, but it will not matter in the long run. Even if you are not loyal, you will still follow commands obediently.”

They’d see about that.  Bucky clenched and unclenched his fists, tail whipping back and forth as he wrestled with the information he was just given, looking for some kind of loophole to keep himself from absolutely losing it in front of Fairbanks. 

“I thought you said that you were just doing the first step at stabilizing me!” Bucky accused, redirecting his anger.

“That was true.  If you were still a free demon, I would be unable to initiate the ritual to stabilize you.  Magic and science are one and the same: you must do things in the proper order, with all of the set up in place to catalyze the reactions or else it will not work.  If you perform the steps incorrectly, sometimes nothing happens at all.  Other times, the results could be catastrophic.”

Bucky balled his hands into fists.  His whole body shook but he was unable to throw the punch.  “Fuck you!  You never said anything about that!  I’d rather turn into a monster than be forced to bend to anyone’s will!  Let alone some two-faced Hydra bastard!  You’re just as bad as Zola!  You could only pull the nice old man act for so long before your damn mask cracked and Hydra showed its dirty face!”  

Fairbanks placidly took a step forward, spreading his hands.  “I kept my word, James and I have not lied to you.  You never inquired about the purpose of the ritual.  Of course, I knew you would be upset were I to just volunteer what it was we needed to do, and I did not wish to add any undue stress to what you were already experiencing.  If it settled your nerves to believe that it was merely the first of a few steps in the stabilization process, I was happy to leave you to your ignorance.”

“Like hell.  None of this is for my benefit, Fairbanks.  Cut the crap: you and Lukin wanted a fucking slave to do Hydra’s dirty work.”

“Ultimately, we can go about this the easy way or the hard way.  The hard way gives me no pleasure, but our work is too important and we will move forward with or without your cooperation.  I genuinely hope that you can come to understand your importance and be _proud_ of what you can contribute.”  
  
“Maybe when hell freezes over,” Bucky growled.

“Well.  In the meantime, I’ve kept my word.  You have given us something, and here is your reward.”  Fairbanks pulled a set of trousers out of his satchel and placed them neatly on the floor of the cell.  Bucky scowled.  They were Hydra issue, but they _were_ pants.  

“I’ve even gone a step further as a sign, once again, of my good will.”  He pulled out a second item: a blanket, and laid it by the pants.  It looked like a simple military-issue scratchy thing, but right now it looked like a piece of heaven.  

Bucky’s stomach churned, but as much as he would have liked to rip the pants in half or throw the blanket in Fairbank’s face, he wanted the items more than the rude gesture would mean in the long run.  “Why the hell are you even trying to play nice with me?  We both know you’re not going to let me go.  I don’t have a fucking choice in the matter.  But you want to pretend like you actually give a damn about me?   At least Lukin doesn’t have any pretenses about what I’m doing here.”

Fairbanks stepped up to Bucky, running a hand across his jaw.  Bucky flinched; he would have given his other arm to wipe the smile off of Fairbanks’s face with his fist.  “Believe it or not, James, I do care about you.  I dedicated years of my life to this ritual, and it brings me great pride to see the fruits of my labor finally come to bear.”

Bucky swatted his hand away with much less force than he would have liked.  “Are you done gloating yet?”

Fairbanks hummed to himself.  “Because you seem interested in knowing what is going on, we will be working on the final ritual to stabilize your transformation soon, but we will need some time to prepare.  I will see to it that you are well provided for in the meantime.  I’m certain real food sounds quite nice right now, doesn’t it?”  
  
Bucky’s eyes flicked back over to him, his lips not quite forming a frown.

“However, you are now under the following standing orders:” Fairbank’s voice took on a sharper edge, “Until I say otherwise, you are not allowed to leave this cell or hurt anyone, yourself included.”

Bucky felt a prickle pass along his spine, and somehow, he _knew_ the command had resonated with whatever fucking magic they’d done to him.  If Fairbanks said anything else as he left the cell, Bucky didn’t process it; all of his focus was spent on trying to stop the anger and fear from completely overwhelming him as he began to realize just how fucked he really was.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the huge contribution from Kamiki on these block of chapters - updates have been a bit slower since chapter 8 turned into a massive thing that we ended up splitting into two parts, and got to the point we needed to take the rest of the outline for a thorough revamping/restructuring [hence the update on total chapters ;) ] 
> 
> LOTS of fun stuff in store - lots of plans - hope you all enjoy the bumpy ride!


	8. Chapter 8

 

Time returned to its ambiguous crawl.  According to the tally marks, inaccurate as they were, it had been four days since he had last seen Fairbanks.  More than once, Bucky had considered taking his claws to his useless collection.  His heat cycle seemed to be a more reliable measure of time than the damn tally marks, anyway.  Yet every time he went to obliterate them, something stopped him.  They had taken his light, his clothing, his newspaper, and even sometimes his food from him, but those marks were something he had created that they hadn’t taken.  Even if they were only a rough estimate of time, even if he had been months off of his mark, it was more than he had without them.  

The lurid dreams had started up again and begun to bleed into his waking thoughts.  So it was coming on earlier, he’d forgotten to record a day or two, or the guards were fucking with him again: Any of those three options seemed equally likely.  

Most of the time, he couldn’t be bothered to get off of the bench, instead just tugging the corners of his scratchy blanket over his head, cocooning himself away from the world.  Sometimes he slept through their visits all together, waking later to find new food and water in his dishes.  

Sometimes, he wasn’t as lucky.  He’d be woken up by a kick to the stomach that knocked the wind from him, leaving him gasping as they slung insults at him or shoved his face into the food dishes.  The guards were growing bolder by the day now that he couldn’t fucking fight back.  He had tried his damndest, but just like with Fairbanks, his hands shook but refused to connect when he tried to hit them.  The bastards knew it, too, grinning like hyenas to each other when the only thing Bucky could sling at them were words.   He sure as hell wouldn’t put it past them to skip emptying his bucket for a day or vary their schedules to deliberately screw with his sense of time. 

However, true to Fairbank’s word, the guards no longer brought him tasteless gray slop.  Instead, he got servings of real food on a cafeteria tray, smelling like the same scents he could detect clinging to them.  It was always served cold, half the time there were blatant bites missing, and most of it got smeared over his face or ground into the floor under one of the guard’s boots, but Bucky couldn’t help but appreciate it, even if it only seemed to encourage the guards to fuck with him more now that he was getting served the same things they were. 

Were they testing his limits or Fairbanks’s?  

And for that matter, where the hell had Fairbanks disappeared to?  Why had he left him alone again?  

Eventually, Bucky mustered the will to gather the corners of the blanket around his shoulders and force himself to sit up, leaning against the back wall of his cell.  Everything felt heavy.  He felt disgusting.  Sure, they’d given him a blanket and pants, but he felt like he was soiling them just by letting them touch him.  Granted, they _were_ Hydra-issue pants, so it wasn’t like he felt bad about ruining them, but it was about as effective as socks on a pig.   They were doing nothing to make him feel any cleaner or any more human, but felt more like some kind of twisted imitation of normalcy.  

It was getting harder and harder to see the fucking point anymore.  Bucky had never given any serious thought to hurting himself since he’d woken up again in Hydra’s capture; doing a grand gesture to try to save Steve was one thing, but giving up and taking his own life wasn’t like him.  Brooklyn and the war had turned Bucky into a stubborn son of a bitch, and he couldn’t shake the idea that Steve would never give up if he were in his place.  Steve would want him to fight for as long and hard as he possibly could; he just had to keep it together until Steve learned where he was and came for him.  However, Bucky was haunted by the fact Fairbanks had added the “yourself included” addendum to his command to not hurt anyone.  Easy way, coward’s way, however he wanted to frame it: at least _that_ option had always been there as a last resort.  Fairbanks had stolen that choice from him.    

Bucky nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the bolt of the door clunk open.  Already?  

Buck’s suspicions were immediately raised when he saw that the two guards weren’t carrying food dishes or a bucket; just rifles and stun batons.  He recognized the stouter one immediately as Petrov.  The second, Oleg, had done frequent shifts the last few weeks, enough for Bucky to learn that his youthful, conventionally handsome face hid a nasty mean streak.  Bucky personally blamed him for the word getting out to the rest of the guards that he couldn’t fight back; he’d been there when Fairbanks had tested the bond.  

They shouldered their way into his cell, but left the gate standing open.  Bucky knew a fucking taunt when he saw it.  Petrov crossed his arms with a smug grin, leaning against the bars as Oleg strode forward.

“Look, Demon, the door is open!  What is wrong, I thought you wanted to leave?”  
  
“Piss off,” Bucky muttered; he really didn’t feel like dealing with their bullshit today.  

“You hear that, Petrov?  I think it likes it here.” Oleg drawled. 

“He likes my dick enough to stay.” Petrov grinned back. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but bit back on a response.  Maybe if he just kept his damn mouth shut for once they’d get bored and leave him alone.  

Oleg seized the end of Bucky’s blanket, giving it a sharp tug, and Bucky’s temper flared to life.  Oh hell no, he had fucking _earned_ that blanket.  He tightened his grip, refusing to let go as he glared defiantly at Oleg.  “That’s _mine_.” Bucky snarled.  He may not have been able to hurt the guards, but that couldn’t stop him from holding fast. 

“Yours?” Oleg laughed.  “You think any of this belongs to you?  You are a _thing_.  You are what is owned.”  Oleg balled his fists into the end of the blanket and tugged harder. 

Bucky knew Oleg was no match for his strength, but the sound of tearing fabric dashed his brief expectation that things might go his way for fucking once.   Bucky released his hold immediately, watching the blanket whip off of him, surviving the experience with only a few holes from where his claws had dug in.  

“Give it back,” Bucky whispered dangerously.  

“You don’t give orders.” Oleg postured, “You think you still scare us?  You can’t hurt a fly.”  Oleg balled up the blanket and tossed it to Petrov before advancing on Bucky, crowding over him.  

“Not anymore,” Petrov chimed in, “But Kozlov was a friend, and you killed him.”  He tossed the blanket out of the open door.  “You want blanket?  Go get it.”

Bucky drew in three measured breaths, holding Oleg’s eyes fast before springing suddenly to action.  He slipped passed him, shoulder-checking him just hard enough to knock him off balance, and made a break for the gate.

He remembered what Fairbanks said, he could feel the words etched into his bones, but god damn it he was going to fucking _try_.  

The moment Bucky reached the threshold, however, his legs locked up, rooting him in place.  The nightmare of being unable to enter the church flashed in his mind and Bucky had to steady himself against the bars for a moment, fighting back a wave of nausea.

Ignoring the mocking laughter of the guards, another idea occurred to him; he dropped to his knees and reached for it.  And, surprisingly, that seemed to fall within whatever “rules” he’d been given, his arm stretching out past the threshold and fingers brushing the cloth.  

A boot caught him in the stomach, the impact knocking him flat onto his back on the floor of the cell.  

Petrov was standing over him when Bucky opened his eyes, a foot planted firmly on his chest.  “You think we can’t take these things from you?  We can take anything we want: your blanket, your clothes, your ass…”

“What’s the point of giving it pants, anyway?  It only gets in the way of fucking.” Oleg sneered.  

“Sometimes a gift is better when you have to unwrap it.” Petrov grinned back towards Oleg, and Bucky seized the opening.  

He twisted, slamming Petrov’s legs out from under him before gracefully maneuvering to catch his head before it impacted the floor.  Before Oleg even finished yelling “EY!”, Bucky had turned the tables on Petrov, and now sat straddled on his chest, human hand between his head and the floor, and his demon hand wrapped warningly around his throat.  He hadn’t _hurt_ him, but Petrov’s pupils were contracted to pinpricks, his face sweaty and pale.  

Infuriatingly, Bucky was far enough along in his cycle that the rush of adrenaline and flush of success went straight to his cock.  He felt it give a twitch of interest, starting to harden as it was sandwiched against Petrov’s chest.  _Fuck_.  

Petrov’s face twisted into disgust, struggling against the pin unsuccessfully. “Get it off of me!”

“Not so fun when the shoe’s on the other foot, is it, Petrov?“ Bucky managed to growl before he felt the press of something against the base of his skull.  That was the only warning he got before his body lit up, a current of electricity kicking him off of his perch.  

Petrov scrambled to his feet and delivered a sharp kick to his ribs.  “Did you just fucking call me by name, you disgusting beast?!” 

Oleg raised the baton for another strike and Petrov chambered a kick when a sharp voice cracked through the room like a whip. “That is enough!”

The men froze mid-strike, turning to see Fairbanks standing just outside the cell with a scowl that could have curdled milk.  “You are relieved of duty. Go back to your rooms and await further orders.”  Oleg scowed, sheathing his baton, but spat defiantly on Bucky’s prone form.  

“GO!” Fairbanks snapped, summoning more authority than Bucky had thought him capable of.

The guards flashed a salute before scurrying away like roaches.  

Cautiously, Bucky picked himself off of the floor, eying Fairbanks with a mix of suspicion and relief.  

“It seems my timing was fortuitous, but you must allow me to apologize.  Their actions were uncalled for and, I assure you, had I known what was going on earlier, I would have put a stop to their torment.”

The tip of Bucky’s tail twitched back and forth and he scowled dubiously.  “Doesn’t Lukin have a camera down here?”  
  
“Camera?” Fairbanks shook his head with a concerned expression, “I can’t imagine hiding a piece of equipment that large in here, James.  You have been kept down in this cellar for too long; I am afraid it has gotten to you.”  Measured pity laced his voice.

Doubt crept through Bucky’s mind as he whet his lips.  “Then if you didn’t come here because of them, what are you doing down here?”

“I know I have been scarce, James, but I had been occupied for the past couple of days preparing the procedure you requested.”  
  
Requested?  Bucky didn’t request anything. “Wait, you mean the stabilization you’ve been talking about?”  He was interested in stopping his changes, sure, but he hadn’t _requested_ it… right?  
  
“That’s the one,” Fairbanks nodded, “But more specifically, I have come to collect you.  Now, I must order you to follow me, although the rest of your standing orders to not harm anyone remains in effect.”  

Bucky fell into step behind Fairbanks as he led him out of the cell, through the heavy metal door, and then out into the hallway he’d glimpsed during his escape attempts.  The experience felt surreal.  It was like something had triggered whatever part of his brain made him do all those pushups in the rain back at basic, or forced him to eat the rutabegas on the dinner plate under his father’s scrutinizing eye, or followed some of Steve’s harebrained ideas.  Except this time, there was no good reason he should have listened.  He was fully aware of what he was doing; he didn’t _want_ to follow Fairbanks, but he _had_ to.

Bucky swallowed, gooseflesh prickling down his arm, and stared down at his feet to try to will them to stop moving.  Nevertheless, he found himself pushing forward, glancing up now and then to make certain that he was going the right way.  The longer Bucky watched his feet and tried and failed to stop himself, the tighter the hallway seemed to grow and the faster his heart pounded in his chest until he felt lightheaded.  

So Bucky tried something else: instead of trying to stop outright, he tried slowing his pace – just a little bit.  Hopefully, not even enough that Fairbanks realized what he was doing.  _I’m still following him, just not quite as fast_ , he told himself.  Sure enough, he felt a swell of accomplishment as he watched Fairbanks’s lead grow by a pace or two.  

However, before Bucky had time to experiment further, they reached the door to the stairwell.   Fairbanks turned to face him for the first time since they left the cell – _he’s proving a point: he has enough confidence in the bond to keep his back turned_.  

Seeming to notice Bucky’s look of consternation, Fairbanks summoned a genial smile, “I’m certain the geas must feel unnerving, but if you don’t trouble yourself with fighting it, it should feel more natural.”

Bucky glowered, Fairbanks’s vocabulary lessons irritating him further, “You’re forcing me to do what you say; don’t fucking tell me what to think.”   

Fairbank’s eyes glimmered.  “You’re right, James: I cannot tell you what to think, and take comfort from that.  However, this is the way things must be.  You know as well as I do what would happen if I hadn’t commanded you: you would have tried to leave once more and likely wound up freezing in the snow.  I know you don’t want to admit it to yourself, but we’ve discussed your lack of options even if you managed to make it to a city on your own.  I’m merely giving advice to try to help ease your mind.”  

“You’re the one not giving me any options, Fairbanks.  Quit pretending you’re looking out for me.”

“You may change your mind when you see where we are headed.”  Fairbanks smiled warmly to him and squeezed his good shoulder.  

Arguing with Fairbanks was only making him more irritated, “I’ll believe it when I see it.  Let’s get this over with, because I obviously don’t have a say in the matter.”  Bucky gestured impatiently to the stairwell.  

“Very well,” Fairbanks opened the door and led Bucky frustratingly slowly up a flight of stairs.  

They met no one in the stairwell, however noises from the compound echoed in Bucky’s ears.  It was louder than he last remembered hearing the facility; numerous bootfalls and distant voices resonated through the walls. Had they increased the security or was this just a busier time of day?

When Fairbanks led him out the door marked -1, Bucky counted a dozen soldiers making their way along the halls in a loose cluster.  More than half of them were unfamiliar faces, and several paused to stare at him like the freak he was before Fairbanks cleared his throat sharply.  

“Pay them no mind, James,” Fairbanks said smoothly as Bucky glared after the pack of them.  “Now come along; you don’t want your surprise to grow cold.”

Bucky had no choice but to resume trailing Fairbanks.  To distract his mind from conjuring up all kinds of ominous things that could be waiting for him, Bucky instead focused on continuing his mental map of the facility.  The second subbasement was virtually indistinguishable from the third, with the same institutional gray walls and nondescript doors lining the hallways, and the same oppressive feeling of being deep underground.  They didn’t have far to go, however.  Fairbanks stopped outside a door just around the second corner, and opened it with a flourish.  

And inside- Christ, Bucky could have wept- a lavishly furnished bathroom with a large claw-footed tub already full of steaming water.  The scents of perfumed soap and lathers tantalized his nose and Bucky could already feel the tension in his shoulders begin to unwind.  Over the months, the layers of filth that had accumulated over his body had managed to make him feel less human than the damn tail, but he hadn’t realized just how bad he ached for the opportunity to really bathe himself.  

“Is this for me?” Bucky asked tentatively, half expecting this dream to evaporate, or maybe Fairbanks had plans to humiliate him further and make Bucky bathe him instead.  

“It is,” Fairbanks puffed up, looking pleased with Bucky’s reaction.  

_Don’t look so fucking thankful_ , he chided himself.  _You’re still a prisoner._   “Why?” Bucky asked warily. 

“Because now I can trust you not to abuse this privilege, with the proper orders of course.  I hope you will come to find that things can be made quite comfortable for you, James, as long as you continue to cooperate.”

“Better to be the right hand of the devil than in his path, huh, Fairbanks?” Bucky seethed, unable to meet his eyes.  

“Come now, there is no need for dramatics, James.  If you don’t want your reward, then I can return you to your cell.  I am certain any number of the soldiers stationed here would enjoy a privately drawn bath.”  
  
Bucky set his jaw, but said nothing.

“I thought not,” Fairbanks mused.  “Now that that little show of defiance is quite finished, here are your orders: Enter the bathroom and clean yourself thoroughly.  You may shave off that beard of yours if you like, and use the soaps and lathers and any of the other toiletries.  After you have cleaned yourself, dry and dress yourself in the underclothes waiting for you on the vanity, but you can take nothing else with you.  I will grant you a generous thirty minutes to complete the tasks, during which you must remain in the washroom.  Your time begins now.”

Bucky was pleased with himself for noting, as he strode into the bathroom after making a brief show of slamming the adjoining door, that Fairbanks’s new orders seemed to override the one to follow him.  He tucked that tidbit aside for later as he took appraisal of his new environment.  The washroom was dimly lit by a ring of lights around a vanity mirror.  A hairbrush, shaving kit, and toothbrush with toothpaste had been laid out on the counter around the sink alongside a folded piece of cloth that must have been the undergarments.  A simple commode sat in the corner beneath a medicine cabinet that, upon investigation, appeared to have been preemptively emptied out.  A clock hung in the far corner indicating it was 9:15, though damned if he could say whether it was morning or night.  

He was wasting precious time.  Bucky looked longingly to the bathtub, easily large enough to fit two grown men, already full with steaming water, and complete with foamy bubbles.  Eagerly shucking off his trousers, he made his way over, skirting the mirror that he wasn’t prepared to deal with yet.  

A sigh slipped from his lips as he stepped into the warm water and slid into a recline, the fragrant bubbles lapping up to his chest.  And _God_ , when was the last time he felt this _good_ , sex notwithstanding?  Even during the war, hot water was a fucking commodity to be shared, and usually no more than a few fingers worth per person when they had the good fortune of being in an inn with a tub.  Maybe he should have felt guilty for enjoying this gift from his damn captors, but he couldn’t deny that he wanted this.  

The tension in his joints eased as he slid his eyes closed.  For a few minutes, he just floated, allowing himself to relax as took in steady breaths, let the water soak the chill from his bones, and tried to forget where he was.  

Eventually, however, the ticking of the clock drew him out of his reverie, and Bucky forced himself to sit forward to retrieve the washcloth and bar of soap sitting on the edge of the tub.  The water had already taken on a dirty stain from his brief soak, and Bucky was eager to rid himself of the months of accumulated filth.

He started at the top: dipping his head briefly in the water before assaulting his grimy hair with the soap, blossoms of its perfume hitting his nose.  He couldn’t place the odd scent of the fragrance beyond something floral and spiced, but it was a pleasant, heady scent that drew out a hum of approval as he raked it through his scalp.  He savored the sensation, right up until his fingers brushed the short horns hidden in his hair, jarring him back to the surreal horror of his situation.  Moment ruined, Bucky grunted irritably and rinsed the soap from his hair.  

Next, Bucky lathered up the washcloth and set in to scrubbing, quickly turning it a dingy gray as he worked over his skin with the same attention to detail as when he shined his boots in basic.  His skin turned ruddy and tingled as he scoured away the dirt and grime, working from his face to his privates and, after a brief moment of hesitation, even going over his sensitive tail. He clenched his teeth against the stir of arousal when zings of pleasure traveled straight up his spine.  Finally, he took the rag to his left arm, working out the dirt from the grooves as he deliberately flexed and shifted the plates.  Cleaned up and in decent lighting, Bucky could see now that the color and texture of the arm resembled the dull gleam of raw iron.  

Glancing at the clock, Bucky sighed; he had less than ten minutes left, and even clean, his beard was scratchy and irritating.  As a final minor act of rebellion, he dropped the soap and cloth in the now-opaque water and left the stopper in the drain.  Let someone else reach into his used water to pull that out.  

His prick hung a little heavier between his thighs when he finally stood and toweled off, feeling rejuvenated and a hell of a lot more human than when he stepped in.  

He wasn’t prepared for the shaggy creature that stared back at him from the mirror, shattering any illusion of humanity.  It scowled at him, scrubbing a monstrous hand through the mess of a beard that hid once-handsome features. 

It took nearly all of the remaining ten minutes to carve that face back from the bush of a beard that had obscured it.  

When he had finished and was wiping away the remnant cream, what looked back on him was a far cry from the confident, dapper young soldier that had gone off to war.  His eyes were hollow, sunken above gaunt cheekbones.  The small horns visibly jutted out from his wet hair that plastered to his head and now fell past his ears, and when he curled his lip in disgust, the fangs he had felt with his tongue flashed to complete the ghoulish image.  

That wasn’t him.  

Even if Fairbanks was able to stabilize him, he was already a monster.  

_He’s right.  You can’t go home again.  Not like this.  Not after what they’ve done to you.  Even if you cover it all up, someone’s gonna figure it out eventually._

He balled his fist in contempt and was getting ready to drive it through the twisted mockery of his reflection when a knock at the door startled him.  

“One minute remaining, James.” Fairbanks’ voice carried through the wood, “You have your orders:  Finish up and exit through the same door you entered.”  

“Yeah yeah,” Bucky groused, noting irritably how precise he was being with his orders.  He tossed the towel into the murky water and snagged the underwear, stepping into them before realizing just how little material he had to work with.  

“Oh for fuck’s sake…”  Were these even mens’ underwear?  They were lower-waisted and thinner material than jockey shorts, and baby blue.   

“The hell are these?” Bucky demanded as he stormed out of the room to where Fairbanks waited with hands folded behind his back.  

“They were all we could find that would accommodate your tail.”  Fairbanks played innocent.  

“You could have cut a damn hole.” Bucky persisted.

“We didn’t need to give you anything, Sergeant.” His voice took on a tone of warning Bucky had yet to hear him direct towards him.  “We also didn’t need to offer you an opportunity to wash yourself, let alone thirty minutes with a warm bath.  I had hoped for some kind of show of thanks for our generosity rather than criticism on wardrobe choices.  I advise that you adopt a measure of appreciation for what you have been given or else you may be given nothing at all.”

Christ, was it so easy to forget that Fairbanks was still Hydra?  They almost had him back there, relaxing in the tub like a yuck, but there was no way in hell Bucky was going to let himself feel thankful to Hydra for giving him a damn bath.  

Fairbanks must have noticed Bucky’s face close off because he took a breath, his face smoothing back to the warm, grandfatherly smile as he looked Bucky over, eyes lingering on his clean-shaven face.  “Although, I must say, this is an improvement.  Surely, you must feel a little better now, hmm?”  

“I’d feel a lot better with some real fuckin’ clothes rather than some dame’s panties.” 

“We’ll see what we can do about that,” Fairbanks assured him, clapping him on the back as if they were old friends.  Bucky’s scowl deepened.  “But for now, we have places to be, James.  I must command you to follow me once more.”

“Wait, where are we going?” Bucky interjected even as he started off after Fairbanks again.  

“I did mention that I had been working diligently to prepare for your stabilization.”  Fairbanks said as he proceeded back the way they came, and passed the stairwell door, continuing in the same direction he’d seen the Hydra soldiers headed earlier.  

“That’s today?” His stomach started promptly to tie itself into knots.  What the hell, this should be a good thing, right?  Yet Bucky couldn’t shake a sense of heebie jeebies. 

“You would prefer to wait?” Fairbanks asked with a mirthful snort, “See how much more you change on your own?”

“Of course not,” Bucky grumbled under his breath.  “You don’t need to talk to me like I’m a fucking kid.” 

Fairbanks chuckled dryly, turning to face him as he lifted an eyebrow.  “And just how would you have me address you, James?  As a prisoner?  Unlike General Lukin, I have higher hopes for you than that, and I know how you feel about that treatment.”  Bucky rolled his eyes, already regretting his words.  Fairbanks continued unfazed, “As an equal?  You have made no secret of your disinterest in working _with_ me, dragging you feet and throwing tantrums whenever you’re given the opportunity.  However, when you do come around, I will be more than happy to treat you with the respect you earn.”  Fairbanks placed a guiding hand on the small of Bucky’s back.    
  
Bucky clammed up for the rest of the walk, which turned out to be just around the next corner and at the end of the hallway.  A shiver passed down Bucky’s spine when the double doors Fairbanks led him to opened up into the ground floor of the converted ritual room.  

Bucky had mentally prepared himself for another ritual, but the sight and smell of the glyphs still sent his heart fluttering in his chest and his tail coiling around his leg.  He hesitated for a breath before following Fairbanks into the center of the room, the door slamming closed behind them.

The table was missing from the center of the room, replaced instead with a simple four foot diameter circle, painted in white and ringed with more of the glyphs.  Dozens of candles perched along the walls, some with symbols etched into the pillars.  A hazy mist of incense ebbed around him, its fragrant bouquet a mix of currant, vanilla, red wine, and other rich, unplaceable spices.  Bucky furrowed his brow, the room shimmering around him as a brief dizzy sensation washed over him.  

He shook his head roughly, trying to keep his thoughts from flowing away from him like the incense clouds. His head cleared marginally, but a prickly, tingling sensation clung to his skin like static.  

A ring of waiting guards stood along the rounded walls of the room, and Lukin waited for them at the center of the room with crossed arms and an irritated expression.  Bucky felt the spines raise along his back at the mere sight of the general.  It apparently had been too much to hope for to never have to deal with Lukin directly again.   

“There you are.  I expected you twenty minutes ago.” Lukin said sharply to Fairbanks.  

“You have the benefit of youth, General, I do not see why you are in such a hurry,” Fairbanks responded placidly.  “I allowed him some extra time to clean himself.”

The look Lukin transferred to Bucky made his skin crawl.  “Did you now.” Lukin’s voice was dangerously inflectionless. “How lucky for him.” 

_Great._

Nonplussed, Fairbanks took his time withdrawing a canteen from his satchel, “Not simply for him, I’m certain.  He was squalid, General; he needed the extra time.  Unless you and your men prefer to deal with him covered in his own filth?”

Lukin’s lips became a thin line.  

_Thanks, Fairbanks.  Piss him off more on my account.  That’s fantastic; I appreciate it._

“He is still a prisoner, and an obstinate one at that.  He has killed several of my men; you would do well to remember that.” 

Fairbanks said nothing in response to Lukin, instead turning his attention back to Bucky.  With only mild emphasis, he commanded, “Go kneel in the center of the circle, James, and don’t disturb anything in the room: that’s an order.” 

Bucky’s was spurred into motion; walking carefully to the center of the circle became the highest priority in his lizard-brain.  Bucky caught a smug expression on Fairbank’s lips before he carefully stepped over the sigils surrounding the circle and dropped to his knees with a frustrating show of obedience.

“Yes, you have already demonstrated that your ritual was successful, Elliot, although I am still not quite clear on why Zola could not merely have sent along the instructions without an interpreter.”  Lukin’s words were clipped.

“I’m grateful that we were able to work out an arrangement, General,” Fairbanks said over his shoulder as he approached the edge of the circle.  “This is not like baking a cake or assembling a rifle; magic and science are nuanced and fickle.  They require a great deal of study to master.  You should consider yourself lucky to have me here.”

Fairbanks turned his attention back towards Bucky, “Thank you, James.  Now, I command you to drink the entire contents of this flask.”

Fairbanks unscrewed the top and handed it over to him, and Bucky found himself raising the canteen to his lips.  The scent hit him a moment before the liquid hit his tongue: salty, bitter, and musky, with an underlying aroma of sweet molasses.  It coated his tongue and ran down his throat, burning like cheap whisky, leaving him with the same jostling of his mind as the strongest moonshine. 

He coughed, wiping at his lips as the empty flask was removed from his hand, and the intoxicating kick began to settle into a pleasant, bleary buzz.  He blinked up at Fairbanks, having to focus on the three shimmering clones to collapse back into one form.  “What… wuzzat?” he croaked.

Fairbanks smiled, reaching out and running a hand tenderly through his hair.  A pleasant tickle ran down his spine.  “Well done.  Thank you, James.  It is required to prime you for your stabilization.”  

Bucky batted Fairbanks’s hand away stubbornly as a note of apprehension sounded through him.  

Fairbanks walked back over to where Lukin was waiting with an annoyed expression, withdrew a small canister the size of a pomade tin from his coat pocket, and placed it in his hand.  “Rub this liberally over his skin; try to use the entire container and cover as much skin as you can.  You know what to do after that.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Bucky blurted out, the suspicious tone amplifying into alarm claxons. 

“The process itself brings me no pleasure, and so I will not be participating.”  Fairbanks spoke with a regretful air that did nothing to settle Bucky’s nerves.  “However after it is complete, your form will be fixed.”  

Bucky’s eyes traveled worriedly over the ring of guards around the room and the dangerous glint in Lukin’s eye.  _Shit_.  “I’m noticing a common theme in these rituals,” Bucky growled.  

An expression that could have been interpreted as sympathy crossed Fairbanks’s face, “Don’t worry, James; beyond the application of the salve, I will make certain that General Lukin and his men will not do anything to you that you do not ask for.”  Fairbanks shot a hard look to Lukin, “Isn’t that right, General?” 

The smile that Lukin responded with was altogether more frightening than anything Bucky had yet experienced.  “Of course, Comrade Fairbanks.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we've been a little slower updating this - but we've also been working on the Cap RBB and contributing to the Hyrdra Trashbook 2 this spring, so we've been splitting our time between that and this (and also recently finished a major re-organization of the outline for this fic's second half - which is now good to go! Next chapter's gonna be a doozy, guys - hope you enjoy! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a doozy, guys! Forced consent/noncon - but definitely moving the plot forward.  
> The artwork at the end of this chapter also includes erect nudity!

  
The moment Fairbanks left the room, Bucky was on his feet and trying to follow after him.  After all, he had made careful note of the fact that Fairbanks had never actually ordered him to stay put.  However, while he was able to stand up, the circle painted on the floor might as well have been a wall.  He couldn’t even convince his arm to reach across the thin air above the drawn barrier.  He’d had no problem walking in, but now that he was inside he couldn’t get out!

Between the intoxicating smoke, his mounting panic, and having stood up too quickly, Bucky steadied himself as a dizzy spell washed over him.  He braced himself with his hands on his thighs and drew in deep breaths, but that only resulted in breathing in more of the vapor, making his brain feel like it was soaking in fizzy soda pop.  

_Not good, not good, not good!_  
  
Bucky diverted his attention to the runes that seemed to spin on the floor around him.   _Focus!_ Maybe there was a weak point in the circle.  

Lukin just smirked, watching him circling his enclosure like a tiger in a pen before casually strolling over.  “It is, as Fairbanks told me, a containment ward.  For demons.”  

Bucky whirled to face Lukin, scowling dangerously and curling his fingers into claws by his side, hoping he wouldn’t notice how wobbly the sudden movement made him.  “Then maybe you should be the one in here, you sadistic bastard.”

“I know you do not like to hear it, but it is the truth.  It is not merely your arm or your horns that make you a demon.  You have left your humanity behind, Sergeant Barnes, and there is no coming back.”  Lukin crossed the threshold of the circle, tossing the cap to the tin aside.  “For real men, it is nothing but paint on the floor; but for you it is better than a cage.”

Bucky raised his left arm to swipe at Lukin, but his hand stalled an inch from his face. Lukin didn’t even flinch, standing his ground with a bold close-lipped smile.  He could _feel_ the words of Fairbanks’s standing orders haunting him, barring him from harming a hair on Lukin’s miserable head. 

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way…” Lukin casually dipped a finger into the container, gathering up a dallop of violet-tinted cream.  “… we can move ahead.”

Bucky shook his head, making the room jitter, but there was nowhere to run.  All he could do was stand there like a fucking dimwit as Lukin spread the salve over his collarbone.  A shivering warmth worked its way into his skin as Lukin began to spread it with kneading fingers over his chest and the fight began to drain out of Bucky’s body.  The sensation was not wholly unlike the feel of the VapoRub that he spread over Steve’s chest when a cold had infested his lungs; he felt tingly and warm and a little fuzzy around the edges. 

A moment later, its scent crawled into his nose, mingling with the intoxicating vapors: it was his father’s aftershave and his mother’s baking, the smell of lazy Saturday mornings in Brooklyn and the smoky dance clubs across the bridge.  The first stirring of arousal pulled at Bucky, but it was different than the usual precursor to his heats.  Instead of a kick of desperation after punctuated periods of intense need, this was more like slipping into that tub full of warm, fragrant water.  It was deeper, gradual, and headier.  He was drunk on the smells and the sensations, lowering his guard and slowing his thoughts, but not enough to distract him completely from his dire predicament.  

Lukin’s voice wafted to him, low and breathy.  <“You cannot hide behind Fairbanks; you are in my hands now, Sergeant Barnes.”>

Bucky’s eyes traced over to him, brows knitting as colorful tracers gathered around the man.  Was the smoke dense enough to be visible, or was he hallucinating? “What is this?” Bucky had to concentrate to keep his words from slurring.  

Lukin hummed a pleased note, <“I thought so.  You have learned to understand Russian, then.  Very good.”>

Lukin was speaking Russian?  Fuck, how had he not noticed?  

Lukin spread another finger of the substance over his torso, causing Bucky to gasp and his cock to twitch as his finger brushed a nipple.  The briefest of touches combined with the spicy heat of the oil caused his nipple to harden and beg for more attention.  

_Yes, please, more of that!  Touch me more, God it would feel so good._ Bucky grit his teeth, warring with his own mind.  _No, Christ, that’s why I didn’t fucking notice the Russian…_ _Too goddamn distracted!_

Lukin spoke up as he continued to spread the mysterious substance over more of his exposed skin, <“To answer your question, this ritual is what you might call the equivalent of your Captain America’s Vita Ray machine: first, we prepare your body to be able to accept such a large dose of fuel all at once…”>  

Desperate longing pooled in Bucky’s stomach at the barest mention of Steve, nearly enough to distract him from the rest of what Lukin had said. _But wait: large dose of energy?  Vita Ray Machine?_   He had to be confused; this ritual was supposed to _stop_ his changes! _Yes, more of that, spread it lower, please, touch me…_ It wasn’t the clawing, screaming WANT of a normal heat, but something truly insidious.  The more Lukin rubbed the substance into his skin, his fingers massaging his muscles, the more his body and mind were lulled into a lazy, relaxed state of desire.  “But wouldn’t that mean, uh…”   
  
_It means sex; look at all the men in the room!  They’re going to fuck me, fill me, feed me, and it is going to feel so good._

<“You have been in a chrysalis, Mr. Barnes.  Let us see what terrible butterfly emerges.”> Lukin whispered fervently.  

Images of strength and power and beauty bought his cock to half-hardness, sending enthusiastic twinges into his gut. It took Bucky a moment to process the full meaning of what Lukin just told him.  “Wait, what?” Bucky managed, feeling the clouds of his mind part briefly.  “No… this ritual: Fairbanks said that it was to stabilize me!”  Bucky desperately tried to cling to his anger instead of the desire.  

Lukin didn’t even pause in his ministrations, instead gripping the base of Bucky’s tail firmly with a lathered hand, sending new waves of ecstasy coursing through him.  The sensation of the lubricated hand squeezing down its length nearly drowned out his fury altogether as a low moan betrayed Bucky’s pleasure.  <“That is precisely what I am doing.”> Lukin answered, <“After this, you will no longer need to worry about changing further: you will be complete!”>

 _No no no no no no no!  How could I be so fucking naive?! Of course, of fucking COURSE that’s what he meant!  Stable… what a crock of SHIT!_ Bucky felt stupid and betrayed, but his damn body didn’t seem to get the message.  Instead it responded with a renewed interest.  “No!  I don’t want- mmph – don’t want to get any worse!”

<“Are you so certain about that?”> Lukin slid his hand into Bucky’s underwear, cupping his building erection and spreading the pleasantly tingling cream over it, <“Don’t lie to me, Sergeant: you seem to be quite interested in the prospect of changing further.  The transformations, they bring you pleasure, do they not?”> Lukin’s voice was gravid with menacing excitement, blatantly relishing Bucky’s impotent fury as his body turned to putty in his hands.   
  
The memories of the exquisite pain-pleasure of growing his tail bubbled to the surface of his mind, followed by the throbbing ache of his canines swelling larger in his mouth and the explosive growth of the horns that had caused him to come over himself.  

“No,” Bucky whispered, the lie feeling heavy on his tongue.

_I want something else heavy on my tongue… all those men… they’re waiting… they’re growing hard watching me, Fuck I can almost taste them…_

<“We will change you _all the way_.” > Lukin purred seductively into his ear, sending goosebumps racing down Bucky’s back, <”Let you feel your body transform as it becomes the creature it was meant to be.”>

 _It had felt so good: something taking hold of his body and drawing forth new flesh and bone from a reservoir of pure energy, reshaping him into something more than human. Something stronger, deadly and beautiful._    
  
Were those words in his head or Lukin’s mouth?   
  
Bucky muscled past the euphoria, forcing himself to protest, “Get offa me you twisted bastard.  I don’t … don’t want… to be a monster!”

<“Of course you do.  Look at you, you already are.”> Lukin’s other hand ghosted over his demonic arm, surprising Bucky at how pleasant the soft touch felt against the unyielding skin.  <“This is merely finishing the job.  The more you feed, the more you will change, and you _will_ enjoy it.  Don’t you want to unleash the potential that has been dormant inside of you since the ritual?” >

_Yes, give me strength and pleasure and make me greater than I am!_

The intrusive thought simultaneously repulsed Bucky and brought his cock to full attention.  Lukin’s proposals should have _horrified_ him, but instead became deeply, humiliatingly arousing – a fact that was not lost on Lukin. 

“N-no…” He denied weakly, only realizing that he had begun to press his erection back against Lukin’s fingers when the general suddenly whisked them away.  Bucky gasped as the abrupt absence of a warm hand resulted in a redoubled ache of need.  

<“Then there is no reason for you to rut against my hand like some kind of beast.”>  

Bucky hated the plaintive noise he made in response.  

<“After all, it wouldn’t even do you any good, would it?  At that point you might as well try to get yourself off against my boots.”>

 _Oh Christ, that sounds good: that polished leather, slick and smooth.  I wonder if I could fit the toe of it up my-_ Warmth fluttered through his asshole.

 _What?!  No!  No it didn’t – no it SHOULDN’T sound good!_ But it did: the idea wormed its way through his head as his cock gave another base-drop kick of interest.  

Something was really fucking off.  Whatever they were doing to him wasn’t only making him hard, but getting into his head.  Just about anything Lukin suggested was turning him on: from changing more to rutting against Lukin’s hand or his boots.  Every new idea hit his cock and burrowed through his mind like a new, unfortunate kink he had just discovered.  

“Wait, you’re not wearing that… mask.”  Bucky changed the subject abruptly away from the terrifying fact that the idea of changing more was actually turning him on.  “That mean you’re joining in this time?  I thought you said you found this need of mine vulgar, you… fucking hypocrite.”  
  
Lukin continued to spread the remaining cream over his body, a smile fishhooking his mouth, <“Your master’s orders have seen to it that you are unable to harm me.  I have never been stupid enough to get that close to you before, but now, well…”>  Lukin lathered a hand back up his chest, tweaking one of his nipples that had grown hard and pert.  Bucky gasped, back arching sinuously as his cock began to visibly strain against the underwear.  <“… with this longer hair, perfumed skin, and these silken panties, you are not so unlike a woman.  You even drip like one.”>  
  
The idea both infuriated him and hit him with another blow of desire.  Bucky twitched away from Lukin’s hands, but he could feel the wetness collecting in the seat of the underwear, only drawing more of his attention to how needy he felt.  _He’s right, like a woman, I feel so damn wet, empty, I need someone inside me.  Maybe they could call me a woman and I could –_

 _No what the FUCK?!_ “Why is it different?” Bucky managed, “It’s in my head! What did you do to me?!”

<“Fairbanks explained a bit to me.  Your transformations occur after your body has taken in energy, so it can figure out what to do with how much it has been given.  Today, we have unlocked your full potential.  You will continue to hunger for it, changing as you go with each new dose of energy, until you have reached your final form:”> Lukin grabbed Bucky hard by the shoulders, jerking him in close to smile at him with bared teeth, <“…a glorious and powerful demon.”>

Bucky had never seen Lukin so fervent.

It was both arousing and terrifying.  

<“We had to call in for reinforcements, you know.  I wonder how many of my men it will take for you to satisfy your succubus hunger.”>

 _Oh god, yes… all of them… all of them…_ His thoughts were suddenly overcome with images of being surrounded by soldiers, pressing into him and fighting for access.  Draining each of them for every ounce of energy they had to spare as his body contorted, shifting…  Bucky could already see a few of them rubbing at themselves through their pants, others with fists balled at their sides and perspiration dampening their brows.  

<“Your pheromones have already begun to take effect.”> Lukin goaded.  

Bucky’s mind raced, looking for some kind of out, finally clinging desperately to what Fairbanks said before he left.  “Wait - Fairbanks said you wouldn’t do anything to me I didn’t ask for.”  

<“Oh we won’t.  You do not need to worry about _that_.  The men have their orders.” > Lukin assured him, sounding far too smug.  

Suddenly it hit him, “That’s part of the ritual, isn’t it?  Well… well screw off then, I’m not going to ask for anything!”  

<“Of course it is.  Say what you like now; before long you are going to be begging us for it.  If we are feeling generous, we won’t even make you wait.”> Lukin tucked the empty tin into his pocket and took a few measured steps back, leaving Bucky alone and shaking in the center of the circle.  His whole body glistened with the oily salve; his skin felt warm, smooth, sensitive, and desperate to be touched anywhere and everywhere. 

<“Now then,”> Lukin began with a clap of his hands, <”What can we do for you, Demon?”>

“N- _Nothing!”_ Bucky shouted over the clamor of his thoughts for a thousand things he wanted the men to do to him.  

<”Very well…”> Lukin shook his head before turning his attention to the soldiers, who looked only tenuously rooted in place. <”They will not touch you, but I cannot promise that they will not touch themselves.”>

Lukin continued to back up until he had found a seat in a chair near the wall, lazily brushing a hand over the front of his trousers with a lurid expression Bucky wished he could scrub out of his mind.  
  
<”Sokolov, show the demon what it is he is missing, but do not enter the circle.  The rest of you, hold your positions.>

A man with bowed lips and close-shaved hair stepped forward.  Sokolov’s eyes darted briefly to the other men watching him, but once he was within a few feet of the edge of the circle, his self-consciousness appeared to fade in deference to the erection pressing against the front of his trousers.  

Sokolov hurriedly unbuttoned his fly and withdrew his cock, starting to stroke it as soon as it was free.  It was the crudest of seductions, and yet Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away from the pink-flushed dick, the way the soldier’s fingers pulled the wrinkles of his foreskin tight, and the reddening cockhead already beginning to drip with precome. 

Bucky knew, for better or worse, it was only thanks to the circle that he didn’t rush the man and take things into his own hands; his imagination supplied a vivid image of precisely what his body wanted to do to him.   
_  
I could do this so much better.  Drop to my knees and take him into my mouth, grip him firmly and swallow him down.  Christ, that pre, I want to lick it off of him, taste it, swallow it!_ He must have been literally drooling, because when he wiped at his chin, it came back moist.  His tail whipped back and forth in agitation, but even its movements were constrained by the effects of the circle.  He wanted to tear his eyes away, wanted to turn around, but it was like there was a cut wire between his brain and his body.  

Sokolov’s nostrils flared and his mouth fell open as he began to stroke himself harder and faster; Bucky’s own hand migrated south, mirroring the guard’s movements through his underwear that only barely contained his straining erection.  He fucking hated being on display like this, but… but no, that just sent another flood of lust rushing through him.  

_No, watch me.  They’re all watching me.  God, it’s humiliating, but it’s so fucking hot._

While Sokolov appeared to be getting somewhere, the only thing Bucky was getting was more and more needy.  The tip of his tail was tracing up his inner thigh, working its way towards his positively dripping hole when Sokolov came suddenly with a shout of surprise.  The spurt of semen landed at Bucky’s feet, just inside the circle.  Before he knew what he was doing, Bucky dropped to his knees, the scent making his mouth water.  Bucky stared at the tiny puddle of jism, horrifically aware of how obscene the impulse he was fighting was.

<“You want it, don’t you, demon?”> Lukin’s voice carried to him, and Bucky’s lip curled in disgust at himself.  <“Are you such a whore for come that you are willing to lick it off of the floor?”>

_They already know how disgusting I am.  What’s the point in fighting it?_

He swallowed thickly, face drifting closer as the smell reeled him in like a hooked fish.  Distantly, he heard crude laughter, but by the time that registered, his tongue had swiped out, lathing over the dirty concrete as he licked Sokolov’s come off of the fucking ground.  

It was nothing like the rewarding shock of energy that came from holding a cock in his mouth when the orgasm drove into him, but the taste was electrifying and perfect.  He could taste the teasing memory of energy as it zinged over his tongue.  Bucky couldn’t help but moan as the semen coated his tongue like chocolate, his body trying to absorb the barest remnant energy from the recently spent seed.  

When he swallowed it down, however, something twinged deep in his core like a match had been lit.  Bucky gasped as he felt a leeching pull of energy travel rapidly southwards.  He leaned back on his knees as his cock gave a massive, visible twitch through the strained underwear, beginning to throb.  He had already been at full attention, but he might as well have been flaccid before by comparison as his cock went through a second surge of growth and sensitivity, like a fucking erection squared. With each subsequent throb, his erection grew larger still. A wretched, gasping moan was forced from his lungs as a ripple ran down the shaft and a series of raised ridges, similar to the ones along the base of his tail, pressed against the taut fabric.  

“What the _fuck?!”_ Bucky yelped, watching in horror as his cock – his fucking _cock_ – started to distort into something inhuman!  He hadn’t even fed, not really!  It wasn’t fucking _fair!_   

Sokolov shook his head, shaking loose from his haze as he stared down with undisguised disgust as the top of Bucky’s cock popped free of the low waistband and began to take on a vaguely pointed shape.  The tent in the fabric swelled larger as a place at base of his cock bulged outwards like a goddamn balloon.  

<“The ritual has begun, Sergeant.  Your body is cannibalizing the remaining excess energy in your system, converting it into physical changes.”> Lukin sounded downright pleased.  

“Not my fucking _dick_!” Bucky moaned, but it was like each small spasm of growth in his dick was directly translating to an uptick of arousal.  He balled his fists, not wanting to touch it, but it didn’t seem to matter.  It swelled again, the ridges raising and putting runs in the nylon panties as the fabric tore to reveal himself to the room of uncomfortable (and uncomfortably aroused) soldiers. 

Shame washed over him, hating the sight of it, hating that it was drawing stares as it bobbed in front of him. He moved his hands to cover himself in shame, but that only made him _touch_ it inadvertently.  It was rock-hard, and he couldn’t bite back the whimper as the fucking _sensitive_ ridges brushed his hand, causing a new splutter of precome to spit from the slit on its pointed head.  His grip tightened reflexively as he doubled over, biting his lip to keep himself from making any more mortifying noises.  His cock responded enthusiastically to the squeeze with another rocking pulse of growth and need until it finally seemed to stop at ten, maybe even eleven inches long, leaving him miserably horny.  

<“You must be so humiliated.”> Lukin murmured in mock sympathy as he flicked open the top button of his own fly.  <“Your arousal is now as visibly bestial as your desire.  Utkin, relieve him, give the demon another opportunity.”>

It was the guard Bucky had originally nicknamed Boris.  He stepped up, shouldering Sokolov out of the way and roughly opened his fly.  With a few grunts, Utkin began tugging at his stiffening cock, his eyes fluttering but not looking at Bucky directly.  

Bucky knew what they were waiting for.  He was so hard up he could taste it; Utkin’s cock was just out of reach: nose-level but just on the other side of the damned circle.  And yet, Bucky found himself leaning forward, to where he could almost touch it, so the scent of it filled his nose and caused his eyes to roll back.  Bucky let out a shuddering breath, and Utkin grunted as his cock twitched.  Irritation flashed over his eyes, but his cock remained ramrod hard.  <“You want something, demon?”>  
  
_He really wanted something.  He wanted it in his mouth, he wanted to taste it directly, feel it filling him._ Bucky clamped down and shook his head, but his hand remained tightly gripping his own cock, the new nubs just as sensitive as the tip, and another whine escaped him.  

<“I bet it would feel even better in your mouth,”> Lukin taunted, <“Otherwise he’s just going to spill himself on the ground as well.”>  
  
_No!_  
  
Bucky licked his lips.  His whole body felt aching and empty and _hungry_.  “Just… just a taste.” He whispered.  

<”You heard him.”> Lukin said as he leaned forward.

Utkin smiled nastily and swiped his thumb across the leaking slit.  <“A taste you say.  A taste you get.”>  He reached his hand across the threshold and Bucky’s lips wrapped around his thumb, suckling at it before he could stop himself.  Bucky’s lips worked over his thumb and then licked up every trace of salty precome from the rest of his fingers.  It was just a taste – just an effervescent tingling on his tongue, and it only made him want the real thing all the more.  When Utkin withdrew his hand, Bucky growled in frustration.  <“Just a taste, you said.  You got your taste.”>

“Let me taste your _cock_ , dammit!” Bucky snapped.  

<“Go ahead, Utkin.  He will not bite any longer,”> Lukin smirked. 

He didn’t give a damn about Lukin.  As soon as the cock was within reach, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his swollen lips around it.  _There, yes._ The weight of it was perfect on his tongue as he coaxed more and more precome from it, swirling his tongue and angling it so the sensitive head rubbed against his soft palette.  He wanted it: he wanted all of this and more.  So much more, but for right now, his world narrowed to this sensation.  He could feel every heartbeat through the cock as a pulse, feel it quickening and twitch as he was getting closer – _yes I need it_. 

But the moment that the cock gave a tight twinge and Bucky’s heart leapt, knowing he was about to get what he needed, it was pulled quickly out of his mouth with a POP and hot semen spurted over his face instead.

Bucky gasped, his eyes snapping open.  _What a fucking WASTE!_ Anger coiled in his stomach, but did nothing to diminish his thirst, instead only adding to his desperation.  He needed to come; he needed this frenzy to end!  “What the hell!” He gaped, even as he wiped the trickle off of his face and brought his fingers to his lips.  _So good…_

<“Greedy little cockslut,”> Utkin sneered.  <“You asked for a taste.”>

“Fuck me!” the words were loose before he could take them back, and two more men were approaching before he could even regret it.  

_Hadn’t he meant to say fuck_ you _?  Did it even matter?_

The next thing he knew there was a cock in his mouth and his tail was being lifted for another one pressing against his back door.  He helped, pressing back against it, his hole already sloppy and loose to take him in until he was spit roasted on both of their cocks.  Bucky moved like a pendulum between them, going from one pleasure to another.  He impaled himself to the hilt on the cock behind him, granting him the perfect burning stretch, before sliding back off and deepthroating the other dick in front of him. 

Bucky tried to send his mind elsewhere, but something tethered him to the present.  His own cock ached unrelentingly at the imagery of what was happening to him and how demeaning it was.  

_Hurry the fuck up.  Come and get it over with._

_Skewer me like a piece of meat.  Shame me for this disgusting need that’ll even make me fuck a piece of Hydra scum._

His cock was so heavy between his legs, longer and thicker than it had ever been before as it drooled a puddle onto the floor; the slick his body now produced made squelching sounds as the man behind him – Bucky refused to let himself look at their faces any more – sped up.  But then, right as he was reeling to new heights, right when he could _tell_ that they were both close through some sorta sexual sixth sense, they pulled out.  

“FUCK!” Bucky shouted, anguished and furious, as hot semen painted his ass and cheek.  

<“They fucked you as requested, demon.  I told you that we would not do _anything_ you did not ask for.” > Lukin reminded him. 

They had fucked him, demeaned him, and didn’t even grant him the payoff that he needed!  Instead, they were wasting the energy he could be using to slake his hunger and fucking rubbing his nose in it.  

<“Come now, it isn’t like we haven’t been through this a number of times before.  Go on: you know what it is you need.”>  

He was going to get to his feet, but he felt shaky, starving, his vision going a little fuzzy around the edges and the world condensed down into smells and _sensations_ of musky arousal all around him.  

_All you have to do is ask.  Ask and they’ll give you what you NEED._

But he’d have to ask for it.  He’d have to debase himself even more.

_What’s the point of pride anymore?  Do you actually think you even have a scrap of pride left?  It’s going to happen sooner or later; you can’t hold out forever.  You know that.  Why waste your energy fighting them?_

He didn’t want to change any more.  He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him beg.  God, they were probably filming him right now…  He bit his lip till it bled, trying to hold back the words, but even that made the monstrous _thing_ between his legs ache all the more.   “Come in me,” he whispered, head hung and shoulders hunched inwards.  

<”There now, was that so difficult?”> Lukin asked, snapping his fingers. <“Give the cockslut what he asked for.”>

Men surged inward and Bucky stopped fighting.  Someone tugged his tail up, lifting Bucky up to his knees before another pair of hands clamped down on his hips, jerking him backwards to stretch him over a stout cock.  Even though Bucky refused to look, the timbre of the groan and thickness of the cock that buried into him brought the image of Petrov’s oily smile to his mind’s eye.  Another thumb found his lips, worming its way in and opening up his mouth to take in a second cock.

<“Show me you like it, _pizda_.  Don’t let me see that disgusting cock of yours or I will make it hurt.” > Even with his eyes squeezed shut he recognized Oleg’s voice.  

Bucky hurriedly covered himself; he could _feel_ it pulsing between his fingers, throbbing like a heartbeat.  

Oleg and Petrov fucked him as if they were trying to prove some kind of point; there was no rhythm, just jarring thrusts.  In the smallest of mercies, as Bucky’s body began to open for them and he could feel the currents of energy traveling through them, their slurs changed into guttural moaning.  This time, thankfully, they didn’t pull out.  Instead finally – _fucking finally_! – their hips jerked and pleasure rushed into the screaming void.  His balls tightened and euphoria filled him, his own come spilling over his hands.  

Bucky bore down, starving, not willing to let them go now that he was finally getting what he _needed_.  Their orgasms hadn’t even finished when the scalding energy careening into him rocketed straight to his skull.

 _My horns, fuck_!  He barely had time to realize what was happening before the usually numb spurs began to pound and ache.   Knobby ridge by knobby ridge, they extended longer as Bucky continued to ride out the twisted waves of pleasure, gasping and moaning as his cock continued to spurt in time with each punctuated surge of growth.  

Bucky was still coming when Petrov and Oleg fell back, replaced immediately by another pair of dripping, veiny erections.   The one in front of him had the fucking gall to grab him by the still-growing horns, causing his body to go taut at the unfamiliar, intense sensation.  He was pulled closer, wrangled down over his cock.  They were so close already, sent nearly to the breaking point by being in the presence of him in the throes of heat and milking their comrades’ orgasms from him.  They barely got a half dozen thrusts before they too opened up for him, pouring their energy into Bucky’s vortex of hunger.   

The energy followed the same channel straight to his horns.  Bucky _knew_ what was happening, he _knew_ what he was doing to himself, but he couldn’t help himself.  He drained them for every ounce of energy they had to give him, feeling euphoric as his orgasm continued unabated as his horns grew longer yet, arcing back over his head.

Bucky barely blinked, too caught up in the fervor, when they were yet again swapped out for a new set of pricks.  They didn’t even have to goad him.  He swallowed one down while snagging the one behind him with his tail to guide it up his ass.  Time was meaningless.  There was only the experience of gaining energy, or the anticipation of it.  When the rush hit him yet again, Bucky moaned as he felt his horns solidify, feeling heavy on his crown, but uncannily _right_.  But as he wrung more from the pair, the energy took a turn, diverting to the tips of his still-human fingers and toes.  His nailbeds suddenly flared with sensation, his nails growing rapidly: not only in length but thickening and curving into short, conical claws.   
  
When the latest pair staggered backwards, falling unconscious a few steps beyond the perimeter of his circle, Bucky fully expected the depraved orgy to continue.  Instead, a single set of immaculately polished boots clicked into his line of vision and a hand grabbed him roughly by the chin, forcing him to look up past a still-clothed cock to Lukin’s face.  Even through his hazy, lust-clouded vision he could tell that Lukin’s pupils had blown wide, but a sick smile clung to his face.  

“ _More_ ,” Bucky found himself pleading, the words tearing past his shame.  

<“So eager,”> Lukin chuckled darkly.  <“But not just yet, demon.”>

Bucky whined in frustration, but while Lukin leaned over the circle, his hips remained just beyond its edge.   He must have come at least a half dozen times, but his lust hadn’t abated a breath; instead it was more like he had crossed a threshold and stayed there, caught in the grips of a full on frenzy.  “Please, don’t stop,” Bucky wheedled, reaching towards Lukin’s fly, but his clawed fingertips shook uselessly at the boundary.  But Lukin didn’t acquiesce.  Instead, he gripped Bucky roughly by the horns and forcibly tilted his head back, wrenching a whimper from Bucky’s throat.  While the horns themselves weren’t sensitive per se, the direct, immobile connection anchored directly to his skull was incredibly unnerving. 

<“What it must be like for you, to willingly do something you abhor because of a hysterical craving…  You are doing this to yourself.  You know that, don’t you?”>

Bucky glared in response, even as his cock continued to drool on the floor.  “Y-you wanted me like this.  Why are you f-fucking _STALLING?!”_  This was just fucking torture.  He did what they made him do: he asked for it.  Why were they stopping now?!

Lukin’s smile twisted, <“Would you like us to continue to change you, then?”>  
  
“What?  N-no!  Just… mmph… just get it over with!  I’m starving!  It’s fucking driving me crazy… it’s not enough… not filling me up, just making it worse!”  

<“Ask for it.”> Lukin taunted.

“Come in me,” Bucky panted, the haze making it harder to think the longer he went without.  

Lukin wagged his finger at him like he was correcting a child; <“No.  Ask us to change you all the way.  Ask us to make you a demon.”>  
  
_“What the fuck?!_ ” Bucky exasperated.  

<“Ask us or we shall leave you be to stew in your own juices until you relent.”>  Lukin’s voice was hard; the threat was no bluff.

“No, _please_...” A paroxysm of fear wrenched through Bucky.  He couldn’t – he _wouldn’t_ – ask for _that._   If he did then he would be literally damning himself, complicit in his consent.  His cock pounded in protest, his erection not having flagged in the least since the whole ordeal began.  He felt so goddamned hollow, his body had spent every drop of energy he’d been given and still cried for more.  He couldn’t wait, he _couldn’t_.  He didn’t know if he could survive it.  His legs shook.  It was worse – _so_ _much worse_ – to have started to feed only to be cut-off before he was completely satisfied. 

 He swallowed, flexing his jaw.  Then, screwing his eyes shut, Bucky caved.  “Change me.”  

Lukin harrumphed in triumph.  <“I thought so.  You would rather be fucked by your enemies and changed into a monster than not get off again.  Do not forget this moment, Sergeant.  This is the moment you freely gave away the last of your humanity.”>

Bucky immediately wished he could take it back, but it was too late.  

He squeezed his eyes shut before Lukin had undone his fly, but he could hear each button popping open and the shuffle of fabric before the unmasked scent filled his nose.  His mouth fell open to take him in, and Bucky let go.  

_God, what am I going to be when this is over?  Will there be anything left of me in mind or body?_

This time they didn’t hold back.  They didn’t stop.  When the first splash hit his tongue, Bucky sucked for all he was worth to make sure Lukin couldn’t impose another damn humiliation intermission.  A tugging sensation like nipping kisses pulled at his ears and sent goosebumps down his neck.  

_Will I even be recognizable?_

Every major muscle in his body began to burn as if he’d been unloading cargo crates all day.  

_Maybe it’s for the best if no one recognizes me after_ this…  
  
One after another, Bucky bore down, bleeding the men dry as they buried inside him.  His muscles wrenched, spasmed, and moved beneath the skin.  He could _hear_ a sickening crunch of bones in his back, dragging sinew and ligaments as points of pressure built beneath his shoulder blades.  If it hadn’t felt so good, he would have been sick to his stomach.  

_Christ forgive me, I don’t want to be a demon!_

Bucky rocketed past another threshold as his orgasm just _lasted_ as the procession of soldiers continued, sometimes more than two at a time.  Muscles bunched, pressure built to a point beyond comprehension and – Bucky felt a cord snap in his mind as he drifting away like a balloon filled with weightless euphoria. __  
  
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	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a brief note, the artwork at the end of this fic contains male nudity (not erect/artistic nudity)!

 

Bucky’s mind was a cloud: soft, hazy, and nourished by the last straggling rays of the sun.  The dwinding part of Bucky that was still minding his mental wellbeing clung to the blissful euphoria of unconsciousness, trying to shield him from the inevitable.  Yet gradually, tendrils of awareness leeched away the last wisps of his oblivious fog.  His body ached, yet felt pleasantly buzzed, and even with his eyes still closed it felt as if he were on a roller coaster.  It wasn’t unlike waking up still drunk from the excursions of the night before; he blearily recognized the sound of a groan before realizing it was coming from him.  

_Christ, I need to quit staying out till the early morning drinking.  I –_

_They made me beg for it._ Bucky’s mind was immediately assaulted by the events of the night before: the ritual, the humiliation, the lies, and the pulling burn of ecstasy as his body contorted and grew things that didn’t belong on a person.  The groan turned into a hitched gasp.  He had never sobered up so quickly in his life as cold fear crashed over him like a tidal wave.   


He felt his heart rate pick up, heard his breathing quicken, but forced himself to keep his eyes squeezed shut; he didn’t want to see how bad it was.  Bucky wanted to crawl back into his state of denial, but once the cat was out of the fucking bag, there was no shoving it back in.  The odor of stale sex climbed into his nose, soured further by the once-heady wine and berry aroma that had denatured into vinegar and rancid fruit.  
  
_C’mon, Bucky, THINK.  Hey – you’re_ thinking. _Whatever they did to you, it didn’t change your thoughts.  No matter what kinda monster they turned you into, you’re still you where it counts._ Relief poured into Bucky, but before it filled him, a second realization struck: _Sooner or later I’ve still gotta assess the damage._

Bucky swallowed thickly.  Without opening his eyes just yet, he tensed his muscles and instantly regretted it.  His body felt markedly heavier: a dragging weight and flash of new touch-sensation an uncomfortable distance from his core made it obvious that something _drastic_ had happened.  Shock snapped his eyes open before he had fully prepared himself.  

For a moment, he stared over his shoulder uncomprehendingly at the bat-like appendages.  

Then it hit him: _Wings_.  He had fucking grown _wings_.  

_Holy shit._

Dread gave way to bewilderment as he gingerly drew up the unfamiliar limbs, flexing and curling the long, fingerlike digits.  Stretching them out, they brushed the walls.  It seemed unreal, like he must still be dreaming.  The alien sensation of two new massive limbs fizzled through him: they felt heavy but _strong_ , the muscles and joints moving not unlike an extra set of arms.  Despite knowing what Hydra had done to him and all of the frankly impossible things he had experienced, Bucky had never for a moment considered it was possible he’d actually sprout _wings_.  

The rest of the world fell away as the dwindling ember of Bucky’s sense of awe rekindled.  Glee had become such an unfamiliar emotion that Bucky almost didn’t recognize it at first.  How many _Weird Tales_ rags had he pored through, devouring any flight of fantasy he could find?  How many times had he dreamed of flying – not the bone-rattling deafening roar of riding in an aircraft, but actually soaring with the wind in his face over silent natural vistas with full control of his movements?   

Unsteadily, Bucky pushed himself up to his knees and reached around to feel them.  He half expected them to dissolve like cotton candy in water the moment his fingers brushed them, but instead, touching them made them undeniably real.  There was sensation in his wings: he felt the caress of his hands against them just as tangibly as he felt the texture beneath his fingerpads.  Patches of hard, scale-like plates, the same ore-like color and texture as his left arm, intermittently covered the wing-arms, giving them an almost draconic appearance.  Thick membranes formed a webbing between the “fingers” and connected all down along the sides of his back; he could feel the skin pull and stretch as he spread his wings – _his wings, Christ! -_ wider.  The unfamiliar (but not unpleasant) sensation stole his breath.   When he curiously pinched the membrane between his fingers, his eyes were drawn to the nails of his right hand.  Dark conical claws that matched those on his left arm now tipped the otherwise human hand.  
  
In his sense of wonder, he had almost forgotten there was more _._

In a frantic moment, Bucky’s hands flew to his face, terrified that the cost of something this miraculous might be his human face. But as fingers patted desperately over the pliable skin of his familiar nose, his soft lips, his flat brow… it felt… it felt _normal_.  

Bucky exhaled, resting his hands against his thighs for a moment, whispering a prayer under his breath for that small mercy.  And when, in another small saving grace, no bolt of lightning struck him down for whispering the Lord’s name, he opened his eyes again prepared to take in the rest…

And Christ, he’d grown!  His chest and shoulders were broader, blatantly more thickly muscled, and his thighs were as thick as treetrunks.  His stomach rippled with developed abdominals despite still concave with malnourishment.  As he rubbed his hand down over the still-soft, still flesh-colored skin, he realized that not a single fucking hair was growing over his chest, legs, or arms; his skin from the neck down bare except for the thin trail of hair running from his navel to his groin.  

_Why the fuck-?_   

He shook his head, what was even the point of wondering?  Maybe it had something to do with the fact he was a damn _succubus_ , as Hydra was so keen to remind him.  Or, maybe it had to do with the strange, inhuman and distinctly hairless texture of his left arm which – mercifully – was confined mostly to that arm.  The hard, vaguely metallic texture of the plates was only mirrored on the arms of his wings, the material of his claws on his fingers (and apparently toes) - and the horns.  Bucky exhaled the breath he realized he was holding.  His worst nightmare had been that the carapace would cover his body, turning him into something wholly inhuman, or that he’d no longer be himself even in his head.  

It was over.  He’d made it through.  Bucky scrubbed his (mostly) human hand over his face.  

_Okay, Bucky.  Hydra’s a group of deceptive assholes: nothing new there.  But assuming they at least were telling the truth about this, you’re done.  No more changes.  You don’t have worry about turning into something truly hideous and unrecognizable any more.  You’re still a person – mostly - and you’ve got fucking_ wings _.  Let’s see what all we have to work with and take this one step at a time._

Bucky brought his right hand up to his face for closer scrutiny.  The claws were short, conical and slightly curved.  While they came to points, they weren’t overly sharp when he tested them carefully against his fingerpads.  Tentatively, Bucky set the dark claws of his right hand into the stone slab beneath him and pressed.  Strength and hardness made up for sharpness, and Bucky watched as they dug into the concrete just as easily as the ones on his left hand had.  The claws on his otherwise human feet followed suit as he curled his toes against the pavement.  

Bucky already had a pretty damn good idea about what he would discover when he reached up to feel along the hard ridges of his horns.  His probing confirmed that they had indeed grown longer: curving back over his head, longer than the length of his hand.  

He arced his tail around to get a better look at it, flexing it and twisting it.  As far as he could tell, it looked the same as it had before Hydra had gotten a hold of him: matching his arm in color, but still maintaining its fleshy texture.  

Finally, he summoned the courage to take another look at his cock.  Next to everything else, that change probably shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did, and yet, it was his fucking _manhood_ , and it wasn’t completely human any more.  So what if it was a bit of a sensitive subject?  If he wanted to keep the illusion alive that he could have a real relationship some day with any level of intimacy, even if they could get past everything _else_ , they’d still have to contend with a fucking monster cock.  However, now soft, it didn’t appear nearly as bizarre as it had become during the ritual.  The knobby bumps along the underside had receded along with the bulbous swelling at the base.  Flaccid, it only hung a little longer and a little thicker than it had previously.  The glans still formed a sharper, more distinct point than the helmeted shape it had before, but it didn’t immediately appear inhuman. 

Bucky blew out a breath.  Okay.  He could deal with this.  He actually could deal with this.  This wasn’t as bad as he feared.  Hell – _hah_ – maybe he could even have _liked_ this if the circumstances were better.  Maybe he could actually _fly_.  Christ, what would Steve think if he saw he had grown wings-? 

_Steve_.  

His heart stuttered at the thought that had strayed so casually into his thoughts.  Sharing experiences with Steve was so second-nature that he’d nearly forgotten where he was and the fact he might never see Steve again.  Bucky swallowed hard against the tight knot that suddenly tied up his throat.  He may have been turned into a demon, but _God_ he still felt just as intensely as before.  He missed Steve like a part of his soul.  

Bucky wiped at his face, his wings pulling in tightly around him like a shawl.  Maybe he should have confessed he loved him sooner.  Before… No!  He wasn’t going to give up; he hadn’t seen the last of Steve.  Somehow, he was going to get out of here.  Even if no one knew he was still alive to rescue him, he damn well wasn’t going to stop trying to rescue himself.  Starting right fucking now.

Bucky forced himself to stop staring at his changed body to have a look at his surroundings and what he had to work with, only to realize with surprise (and a little embarrassment he hadn’t noticed sooner) that he’d been moved to a new cell.  

The same stone-grey walls encircled him, but this larger room came equipped with an actual cot, simple toilet, and a sink set into a wall complete with a bar of soap and washcloth.  The (steady!) light source originated from a fixture set into the ceiling, and a standard wooden door rather than a barred gate or armored door contained him.  But the thing that set Bucky’s heart beating in hope was the presence of a window.  The heavily tempered glass was guarded by steel bars, but it was still a _window_.  

This room appeared to be a barracks quarters rather than a prison cell, a blatant upgrade, and yet irrational apprehension flared at the change.  His cell had been inhospitable, but Bucky had learned to identify a recognizable pattern in his existence.  Gone were his collection of tally marks – _how many had he even been up to?  55? 65?_ \- his clothes, and any sense of familiarity with his environment or even his own goddamn body.  They’d given him new things, but Hydra had proven that anything he took for granted could be stolen from him.  Moving him here might be some kind of reward in their eyes, but that just meant it was one more thing they had to leverage against him.  Bucky couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that his life had become a horror serial and he’d just begun a new installment with God-knew-what threats. 

Maybe he could get the fuck out of here before he had to find out.  Despite the unknown looming in his future, a new location also came with new opportunities.  He had tested his old cell time after time, allowing them to strengthen their defenses.  This new prison had yet to prove it could successfully contain him.  

Awkwardly, Bucky pressed himself upright with his hands against his thighs, but everything felt off – he felt heavier yet stronger; his center of mass was not where he was expecting, and he suddenly had a whole new set of muscles he didn’t know what to do with.  As soon as he was vaguely vertical, he nearly fell right over again as his wings rustled like they were trying to help, but only succeeded at throwing him further off balance.  Bucky stumbled and the wings flared and flapped as he tripped, panicking right along with him.  He barely managed to catch himself on the edge of his sink, trying to seize control of the flailing limbs.  

The metal of the sink groaned as he squeezed it tightly, measured his breaths and focused.  _Fucking walking across a room shouldn’t be so goddamned hard!_   He carefully righted himself.  Then, keeping one hand on the sink, he cautiously tested shifting his weight from foot to foot, experimentally stretching out and drawing in the wings.   He felt like he was six years old again and trying to learn how to ride a bicycle.  

Finally, after a good several minutes of testing his balance, Bucky drew the wings in close to his back and cautiously let go of his crutch, setting himself to the task of making it the six or seven paces across the room to the window.  It wasn’t pretty.  He had to restrain the bunched muscles’ urge to reach out and help him balance like a tightrope walker and his tail suddenly became a hell of a lot more vital to help him counter-balance.  He nearly overcompensated and fell backwards twice, but as he caught himself on the stone frame of the window, he felt victorious.  

Sunlight – real sunlight – streamed in from the window, touching his skin with a hint of warmth against the chill that otherwise radiated from the exterior wall.  Bucky craned his neck to look down; it was hard to get a good sense of elevation thanks to the bars keeping him away from the glass itself, but he had to be at least six or seven stories up – like a fucking damsel in a tower.  The bleak, snowy panorama amplified the brightness of the low-hanging sun; howling winds raged past the window blasting fresh snow across the tundra like a storm of arrows.  Thanks to Fairbanks, Bucky knew it was the dead of winter, and judging from the isolation and distant mountains, they had to be in the middle of nowhere in the Northern USSR.  It didn’t matter; Bucky would rather take his chances with a Siberian blizzard than Hydra.  

A spark of unfamiliar hope caught in his mind, ignited by the epiphany that since they’d dragged him here unconscious, no one had given him any orders to stay put.  If he waited too long, they could remedy their oversight.  On the other hand, if he moved too quickly he could blow any chance he had.  Even if he made it outside, it was bright daylight and he knew snipers were keeping watch: not to mention the fact he barely could walk in a straight line.  

However, before Bucky could reach a decision, it was made for him.  A clamor of hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway beyond the door over a now-familiar voice, “Out of the way - let me see him!”

Bucky tore himself clumsily away from the window in the breath of time he had before the door was thrown open.  Fairbanks, red in the face and out of breath, stood agog in the doorway, flanked by two uncertain guards.  The look of fear on the guards’ faces as their eyes swept over him was enough to make Bucky’s skin crawl, but Fairbank’s expression of unbridled delight put the nail in the coffin of Bucky’s good mood. 

“By Jove, it _is_ true,” he stammered as he stumbled into the room.  “Lukin informed me you had manifested wings, but I couldn’t be certain he wasn’t merely trying to goad me into overreacting.  I had only dared to hope for wings,” Fairbanks whispered in awe, quickly closing the distance between them.  “You are stunning…” Fairbanks breathed, wetting his lips and reaching out as Bucky felt his hackles literally raising ridges all down his back.   
  
“Stunning?” Bucky repeated with a snarl, “I can barely fucking _walk_!” An uncomfortable thought weaseled into Bucky’s head that even if he got the hang of how to move with his wings, it was one thing to have developed something you always thought it was keen to have, and a very different thing to face the idea of having to live the rest of your life with them as something _other_.  Fairbanks looked at him like he was an exotic animal in a zoo, and that was probably the _best_ outcome Bucky could hope for from other people.  Even if he hadn’t transformed into some unrecognizable monster, he was still a far cry from human.  

“There there,” Fairbanks put one hand on Bucky’s gnarled shoulder, stroking along the arm of his right wing with the other, the soothing gesture coming off as presumptive and possessive.  “You may need some time for your body map to update, but once you do, you will be truly exquisite: graceful, strong… imagine the presence you will strike when you have mastered this body!”

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Bucky snapped, jerking backwards and immediately landing hard on his tail.  The impact hurt his pride more than anything, but he flared his wings and bared his teeth at Fairbanks from the ground.  “You are a fucking _liar_.   You told me you were going to _stabilize_ me – stop my changes!  You made me think I wasn’t going to get any worse!”

“I told you we would stabilize you, and that is precisely what we did.”  Fairbanks explained slowly, over-enunciating his words, “It is no one’s fault but your own if you made the wrong assumption.”  

“I _know_ what you said.  I fucking figured that out when Lukin had his hands wrapped around my cock and was gloating about what he was going to do to me.  You knew exactly what you were implying.” 

Instead of answering straight away, Fairbanks pulled a hand mirror out of his satchel, presenting it to Bucky like a peace offering.  “Take a look for yourself: I do not think it is as bad as you are imagining.”  
  
Bucky snatched the mirror from his hands, giving himself a breath before meeting his reflection. He hadn’t felt any differences in his face, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t have missed something – _what if my eyes stayed solid black?  Aren’t eyes the window to the soul?_

Before Bucky had too much time to work himself up in a new fit of paranoia, he forced himself to look. The face that looked back at him was familiar: the same blue-grey eyes, the same cleft chin and sharp cheekbones.  The only feature he hadn’t noticed was that his ears had grown outwards into a pointed shape.  

“Look on the bright side,” Fairbanks spoke as Bucky’s hand automatically reached up to feel along the shell of his ear, “You no longer need to worry about getting worse, and you still have your good looks.”  Bucky glared out of the side of his eye as Fairbanks took a knee beside him and reached out to caress his cheek, “Instead, you have reached your full potential;  physically at least.  There is much that you can learn now that you have achieved full synthesis,” Fairbanks crooned, his grubby hand lingering on his face.  “You have become the creature that was born within you when the ritual was first conducted.  This is the form that has been yearning to stretch its wings.”  Bucky rolled his eyes as Fairbanks chuckled at his own tasteless joke.  

“I never wanted this.” Bucky croaked, angling the mirror so he could see the dark horns cresting over his head.  

“You can honestly tell me you never dreamed of flight?” Fairbanks needled. 

“I never wanted to be a goddamned _demon!_ ” Bucky countered, hurling the mirror at the floor between Fairbanks’s feet.  Glass exploded in a satisfying crash, and for a moment, Bucky caught an even more satisfying flash of fear on Fairbanks’s face.  

Fairbanks stood, schooling his face into an impassive mask.  “I may have softened the blow, but I never lied to you.  Your transformation was inevitable, but could have dragged out over the course of years.  Each time you fed, you would have worried about what you would have lost next.  Now you know, and really: these final changes are not so bad,” he urged, regaining his composure as he loomed above Bucky.  “But you never would have agreed to the ritual had you known what it was; I did you a favor.”  

“Don’t put this on me!” Bucky shouted, Fairbanks’s reassurances doing nothing to quench his temper.  “This is all for your goddamn obsession.  You bonded me to you – made me your fucking slave.  You knew exactly what you were sending me in there for and you didn’t even see fit to warn me.”

“Why should I have warned you?  They didn’t do anything to you that you didn’t ask them for, did they?  Surely that had to be the case; it was a part of the ritual.”  

“It wasn’t _like that_.” Bucky hissed, his tail slapping the floor.  “They fucking _raped_ me.”  
  
Fairbanks’s face softened, “You felt humiliated.  Of course.” His hand settled back on Bucky’s shoulder, but Bucky couldn’t find the gumption to shake it off this time.  “But that is only because you do not understand what is best for you.  That’s okay – I am certain it must be confusing and so easy to conflate what it is you think you want with what it is you really need.”  Fairbanks’s thumb rubbed a gentle circle over his skin.  “You must feed, and you should not feel shame for doing what is natural to you.  Do you think that a tiger feels shame for hunting its prey?  That a car feels shame at being fueled with gasoline?  Sex is your fuel; it is what your body runs on.  Shame is merely an artifact of your old existence.  You are something better now, greater than a man.  You are only doing yourself a disservice by clinging to this shame, and I can help you move past it and interpret your needs.”  

“I don’t know what kind of bullshit you think you’re selling, but I don’t need anyone interpreting my needs!” Bucky shook his head, incredulous, a chill of unease running down his back.  

“You have changed, my _Carus_.  It is natural that you don’t fully understand your current state, but thanks to my expertise, there is much I can teach you.  I have waited my entire life to see a demon, and you do not disappoint.”  Fairbanks’s hand followed his line of sight up along a wing, caressing it reverently.  Like them or not, the wings were his now, and he sure as hell didn’t like Fairbanks pawing at them.  It sent a message loud and clear: as far as Fairbanks was concerned, Bucky belonged to him lock, stock, and barrel.  “The ritual was not only successful at creating a true demon, but a truly powerful one.” 

_Good_ , Bucky thought bitterly.  _The better to fight you with._ Fairbanks may have been preferable to Lukin, but only just.  Now, if he could just manage to distract Fairbanks enough that he neglected to command him to stay put, and unfortunately pissing him off more probably wouldn’t help his mission.  

Still… Bucky’s mouth didn’t always get the memo.  “You love to hear yourself talk.  What, Lukin uninterested in you fucking waxing poetical about this ritual?  Lording knowledge of what the hell is really going on over my head so that someone will talk to you and be impressed with what you know?  That’s really fucking sad.  Lemme guess, you wasted years of your life on this magic bullshit and never actually thought you’d see it work. And now, here I am, someone else succeeded where you didn’t but you get to swing in and play with me instead.”  Bucky hoped, belatedly, that pissing him off would at least serve as a different sort of distraction.

The rant, however, didn’t hit as anticipated.  While Fairbanks straightened his shoulders and raked his eyes over Bucky critically, there was no explosion.  “Lukin is not one for conversation; he is a man of simple desires: results. You, on the other hand, have already shown me that you have an interest in learning about what you are.  It is natural to be fearful of change, and you have gone through quite a bit of that, but you are expressing that fear through misdirected anger.  You are correct: it _was_ Zola and not I who succeeded with the ritual.  However, I can assure you, you should be happy that he is not personally overseeing your care.  I’m not your enemy.  I can be your friend and your mentor, and together we can do a great deal of good in the world.”

“I don’t know what kind of crackpot thinks he’s ‘doing good in the world’ and yet spends his life wanting to summon a demon.” Bucky muttered with a scowl. 

Bucky didn’t expect Fairbanks to chuckle at the accusation.  “That is the argument you choose to take?  You _are_ a demon, and yet you see yourself on the side of good, do you not?”  Bucky’s irritated huff unfortunately signaled to Fairbanks that his words hit home, urging him on with renewed enthusiasm.  “You are something entirely different from human, but you are not inherently evil.  You still feel and think and _care_ the same as before.  My desire to work with a demon is no different.  I see you for what you are: a powerful creature with a great potential for good.  Your old allies on the other hand, well, I cannot guarantee you that they would still see you as the hero.” Fairbanks paused, ignoring Bucky’s sour expression before rifling through his satchel as he went for the door.  “I shall give you some time to adjust.  Perhaps you will feel more at ease when you have grown used to your new attributes.  I dare say you may even find yourself enjoying them.”

Bucky refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he kind of liked the wings.  “I could use some real food,” He goaded.  If Fairbanks was set on trying to earn his trust, at least he could try to get some food out of him.  “Learning how to walk again would probably be a hell of a lot easier on a full stomach.”

A smile crept onto Fairbanks’s face.  “As a matter of fact…” He withdrew a paper bag from his satchel.  “I brought up a sandwich for you.  I’ll tell you what: you can eat it after you complete the following orders: clean up all of the shards from the mirror you broke, put them in this bag, and toss it out your door.  The task will help you practice maneuvering.  However, you have additional standing orders to not disturb the glyphs.”

Bucky followed Fairbanks’s eyes.  Just beyond the now open doorway was a line drawn in chalk with what appeared to be the same glyphs that had surrounded him in the circle during the last ritual.  He let a scowl linger visibly on his face.  “Fine.”  S _o I can’t use the doorway.  I have another idea anyway_.  

Fairbanks stepped across the sigils, followed by the guards that had accompanied him.  Both of them eyed the chalk drawings, apparently careful not to scuff the glyphs.   Bucky’s heart skipped a beat when Fairbanks turned back and opened his mouth to say something.  _Shit, he’s going to close that loophole!_

“I’m going to show you a sign of good will here.  I don’t believe that you need these men watching your every move.  You can even keep your door open if you like.  Be good, and I’ll bring you some clothes during my next visit.”  The smile washed from his face and Fairbanks brought up a finger in warning, “But don’t make me regret convincing General Lukin to upgrade your accommodations. “  

_Good will my ass.  There are probably cameras watching me, anyway.  You’re just trying to show me how much goddamned control you’ve got over me._

But then, just like that, Fairbanks left, the heavy bootsteps of the armed guards retreating after him.  After a few moments, Bucky heard them round a corner and then the heavy bang of what was probably a stairwell door.  Straining, he could hear them descending the floors.  

He was alone.  He hadn’t amended his commands.  The hope in his chest burned just a little brighter.  

He’d need to wait at least till nightfall before he made his move anyway, but in the meantime… Bucky withdrew a sandwich from the paper bag that made his stomach growl in enthusiasm, set it down reverently on the bed, and set to the task he had been compelled to do.   

Fairbanks was right about one thing: the menial task of cleaning up after his own outburst was good practice with his balance.  Bucky squatted, using his wings and tail to help keep him steady as he picked up the shards between the claws on his thumb and forefinger like a pair of tweezers.  

As he worked his way through the scattered pieces, an idea took seed in his head.  Left alone, unmonitored, Bucky could explore the leeway in his orders.  Fairbanks had commanded him to toss “it” over the line after he cleaned up the mess, but he hadn’t been very specific.  So when Bucky couldn’t spot any other pieces of glass on the floor, he walked, still a little ungainly, over to the threshold of the doorway.  Just like before, he couldn’t reach past the line – but he still had to check.  Then, Bucky shook the contents of the bag out into the hallway before balling up the empty bag and sending it after it.  Broken mirror shards twinkled throughout the empty hallway like stars, and a broad grin stretched across Bucky’s face.  He’d managed to follow the orders to the word, _not_ the intent.  Bucky held onto that tidbit of information about his condition like it was fucking gold.  

That begged the question: how else could he stretch the interpretation of his commands?  The standing orders to not disturb the glyphs weren’t too different in semantics than not to hurt anyone…  What if he didn’t _directly_ smear them, but happened to throw a handful of water at the chalk? 

Unfortunately, as it turned out, _Bucky’s_ intent did seem to matter.  It was like the compulsion _knew_ the reason Bucky was trying to toss the handful of water was to smear the chalk, and he couldn’t bring himself to toss the liquid.  The end result would still be breaking orders whose wording was pretty damn clear.  It didn’t matter how much he just tried to tell himself that he was just throwing water into the hallway for no good reason.  

So fine.  That was still a Problem with a capital P, but he was slowly building his armory of knowledge, and the loophole of wording vs. intent was a damn good weapon.  

Feeling accomplished, Bucky sat down to eat his sandwich, watching the sun sink lower in the sky as he savored his reward.  The door may have been warded with glyphs, but the window was only guarded by mundane steel bars.   After nightfall, it would be time to find out just how strong he’d become.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- _Carus_ is Latin for “beloved, loved; dearly, dear; high-priced,  
>  costly; valued) - in essence, a pet name with a sense of value associated with  
> it, like “precious”.  
>   
> \- Random nerding: There is a cool video on youtube from a psychologists that  
> addresses the interesting themes about a drastically changed biology from comic  
> books, etc that is always a subject I find fascinating and is particularly  
> relevant to this chapter!  
> [Cybrogs and Super Soldiers: The Psychology of Altered Bodies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ftJeQ8jRKM&t)  
>   
> \- ALSO Aaaaaah! Holy crap guys [ thesummer-soldier ](http://thesummer-soldier.tumblr.com/)drew us this AWESOME fanart of Demon-Bucky!!!!  
> It's been like a dream of mine to get giftart based on a fic, and just... ;____;   
> I can't even - THANK YOU!  
> [](http://arania.kamiki.net/misc/fanfics/thesummer-soldierdemonbucky.png)  
>   
> [ Check it out on Tumblr/reblog it from here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/160736447053/thesummer-soldier-demonbucky-based-off-of)  
> 


	11. Chapter 11

Night spilled over the desolate tundra faster than Bucky had prepared himself for.  The sun never climbed higher in the sky, instead circling partway around the horizon before sinking beneath the mountain ridges.  It couldn’t have taken more than an hour or two after Fairbanks left before the small bulb became Bucky’s sole source of light.  

Bucky vaguely remembered something from school about shorter days during the winter the further north you went, so he should have plenty of time under the cover of darkness to make his break for it.  There should have been no hesitation, and yet Bucky’s stomach churned, the ridges along his spine raised and lowered, and his wings shuffled and flexed as if trying to find a way to lay comfortably against his back.  So he was nervous.  So what?  This was a shot in the dark and there were so many ways this could go wrong and land him in a worse situation than he started.  

Despite the shroud of night, the halls of the facility echoed with distant bootsteps and muffled voices.  Maybe it wasn’t that late yet.  If the sun had just set, it _couldn’t_ be that late yet; maybe he should still wait at least until there were fewer men awake and on duty.  

Maybe he was stalling.  

As Bucky wore a groove in the floor (working on getting a better sense for his new body and not just pacing, really!) the hard plates on his wing-arms shifted with an audible CLACK.  It felt like a ghost had just run its hand up Bucky’s spine.  The wings curled in on themselves with a mind of their own like a collapsing pup tent and the plates slid into a new position, covering the appendages. 

Baffled, Bucky craned his neck and felt over his back.  The wings were still there; flush against his back beneath the hard covering that looked like the back scales of the alligator he’d seen at the Central Park zoo once upon a time.  When he tensed the muscles in the limbs, he could still feel them beneath the protective plating.  

Hunh.

Well, that might be really damn useful if he did make it out of here; retractable wings would be a hell of a lot easier to hide under a coat and meant he could be a lot more maneuverable if he needed to be.

Right now, however, Bucky needed them.  Tentatively, he flexed unfamiliar muscles to separate the scaling and uncoiled the fingers, leaning against the wall for support.  It felt awkward and looked unnatural as the wings popped and dislocated, like a snake unhinging its jaw and erecting its fangs.  It looked like it should have hurt, but as the wings worked their way open once more, it felt more like a good stretch after having been lying in one position too long.  He gave them an experimental flap and everything seemed to be working the way it should – at least as far as Bucky could tell.  

Bucky rounded on the window, setting his jaw and facing it down like a foe.  He’d waited long enough; the sounds of life in the facility had gradually wound down and he probably had as good a sense of how to control his body as he was going to get for the night (he hadn’t stumbled for at least an hour, thank you very much.)  If he put this off too much longer he ran the risk of Fairbanks returning to correct his oversight and commanding him to stay put.  

Bucky gripped a steel bar in each hand and planted his feet on the wall to either side.  There was no guarantee he’d be strong enough to pull the bars off; he hadn’t been able to get out of his basement cell after all, but dammit he was at least going to try.  If this worked though, he’d have to move fast because this wouldn’t be quiet.

Bucky drew in three deep breaths and then _pulled_.  He expected more resistance; instead, a resounding CHUNK reverberated through the room as the frame of the bars tore free in his hands, sending Bucky sprawling backwards onto the ground.  

He was on his feet again in a flash, heart hammering in his chest.  That had been far easier than he had expected.  Maybe too easy.  Or maybe Hydra just didn’t have a good idea of just how strong he’d become.  Bucky wasn’t willing to believe he was that lucky yet.  Jittering hands ghosted over the exposed frame of the window, but it was mercifully free of glyphs.  

Before he had time to reconsider, Bucky drove his left fist through the glass.  Frigid wind tore into the room, pelting Bucky with shards of glass and raging snow.  The broken glass pinged harmlessly off his skin, but the plummeting temperature nearly froze him where he stood, promising a gauntlet more formidable than steel bars.  _No_ , Bucky asserted to himself, _the wind wasn’t a barrier, it was the breath of freedom._   

Bucky leapt for the window as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his feet, and the exalted rush as he stepped out onto the sill was nearly enough to make him forget the unrelenting cold.  Carefully, Bucky turned, pulling his wings in tight against his body, dug his claws into the concrete exterior of the building and began to climb.  Hand by hand and foot by foot, Bucky made his own footholds with his steely claws, making his way around and above the shattered window just in case the guards had heard and came looking for him.

_The clacking of the train pounded in his ears over the howling wind as Bucky desperately clung for his life to a groaning metal bar – the only thing keeping him suspended over a yawning chasm of ice._

Bucky clung to the façade of the building between floors, petrified, trying to tear free of the vivid flashback.  He shivered, gritting his teeth and digging in his claws as the cold wind whipped over his naked body.  Familiar vertigo assaulted him as Bucky unconsciously let his eyes wander down, down, down.  At least a sixty foot drop waited for him if he fucked this up, but what did he have to lose?  For better or worse, he’d survived a longer fall.  

Artwork by [CobaltMoony](https://cobaltmoony.tumblr.com/)!

 _Now or Never. C’mon, you always wanted to fly_.  Tentatively, Bucky extended his wings, preparing himself to take the plunge when a gust of wind caught his wings like a kite, nearly tearing him off of the wall.  For a moment, he frantically dug his claws in deeper as he could feel the force of the gust pulling hard against the membranes.  And then… he let go.  

For one terrifying moment, he started to fall.  Panic coursed through him; he could hear the clackity-clack of the train and Steve’s strangled cry of his name over the howl of the wind.  _SHIT!  SHIT! SHIT!_   _I’m falling!  This was stupid – of course I can’t fly – that’s insane!_

But then, as the ground rushed up to meet him, he twisted, swallowed down the memories, and spread his wings wide.  He caught the air with the same force as deploying a parachute, his body jerking upwards as the wind snatched him away from the ground.  

_I’m flying, holy fuck I’m actually flying._ Okay, so maybe it was more like letting the wind carry him like a sail, but whatever, Bucky wasn’t about to get into an argument with himself over semantics.  Experimentally, he pumped his wings a few times, and each flap lifted him a little higher.  It wasn’t pretty, and Bucky felt like he was only being suspended by two parts luck and one part determination, but he was actually doing it.  Only when he had glided above the roof of the facility did he realize that the gunshots that he had been expecting never came.  No sentries patrolled the roof; maybe the blizzard was too bad, or maybe he hadn’t triggered any alarms yet.  He rose above his torment and the months of imprisonment, heart full to bursting with pure, unadulterated joy.  It was balls-cold out, but he free and he was fucking _flying_.  

He tilted, angling his left wing down and felt the world wheel as he managed to bank an ungainly turn.  He’d seen the sun set just beyond the distant peak that looked a little like a table, which probably meant that was at least vaguely West or Southwest.  While Bucky had no idea where the fuck he was exactly, South seemed as good of a direction to head as any. 

The more he got the hang of it, the more flying felt more like high-stakes swimming.  Minute flexes of his fingers or tilts of a wing adjusted his angle while his tail played rudder and kept him stable. Only certain currents of air would carry him without an active struggle to keep his heavy ass aloft, and there was a learning curve on figuring out how to identify them.  He already loved it.  

The tundra rushed beneath Bucky for what felt like the best ten minutes of his life, exhilaration bubbling from him in peals of laughter as he left the Hydra facility behind him.  

Then it hit him.  

It was like his heart had been lassoed and jerked backwards.  _No_.  No, it felt just like the commands Fairbanks gave him.  _No!  It wasn’t fair!  He hadn’t even heard anything, he –_ but he was already wheeling around, watching himself head back towards the compound.  There was no sound in his ears but the howling wind, but he could _feel_ Fairbanks’s voice in his blood, commanding him.  _Summoning_ him.  If he closed his eyes, he could feel the invisible cord connecting them and follow it back to where the old man waited the same way Bucky had just _known_ how to find Steve when he’d been hurt on mission.  

_Why couldn’t it be Steve?  Why couldn’t he find_ him _?_ Bucky closed his eyes, unwilling to watch the facility loom closer, and cast out with his heart hoping to find some connection to the man he loved – but all he could feel was Fairbanks growing closer by the moment. 

His eyes stung and his heart felt like a lead weight as he propelled himself clumsily through the broken window, shattering the rest of the pane.  He spilled onto the floor amidst broken glass and accumulated snow in front of Fairbank’s brown loafers and Lukin’s tapping, polished boot. 

Bucky’s breath came in ragged gasps as he lifted his head, a furious snarl on his lips.  “Fuck you, FUCK YOU – all of you!” He shouted, not even giving a damn about the pair of guards with rifles pointed at him.  

“I’m disappointed, _Carus_ ,” Fairbanks said with a shake of his head, sweeping forward and gripping Bucky roughly by the jaw.  “We just spoke about how I had vouched for you to get you these accommodations.”

“Ungrateful cur,” Lukin murmured behind him.  

“You didn’t… there was no command…  how…” Bucky panted, trying to keep himself from cracking in front of his captors.  He had been _so close_.  He had tasted freedom only to have it stolen from him.  

 “You are a demon, and I am your master.  One of the benefits of our bond is that I can summon you to my side whenever I choose.”  Fairbanks couldn’t disguise the smugness lacing his voice.  “You must heed the call even if you are beyond earshot.” 

The words hit Bucky like a shot in the gut: just as painful and strength-seeping.  “No,” he wheezed.  

Fairbanks’s grip turned into a caress, his voice turning tender, “And you, if you search your heart, can always find me.  It is comforting, I would think, to always be able to know where the one that cares for you is.”  The glare that Bucky leveled against Fairbanks could have boiled snow.  “But come now, where did you think you were going?  We are hundreds of miles from anywhere, and you were naked in the middle of a snowstorm.  Even with those beautiful wings of yours, you couldn’t have gotten very far.”

“You knew that, you bastard!  That’s why… that’s why you didn’t bother to order me to stay put.” Bucky said, his voice husky and his well of hope evaporating.  He couldn’t hurt Fairbanks, and even with the doors thrown wide and unguarded, all it took was a fucking word and he’d run back him like a damn dog to his master’s whistle.  

He couldn’t escape.  A tremor took hold of his arms.   

“Of course.  It pains me, nonetheless, that you failed this little test.  Although now I suppose we know that your wings are not merely decorative.  That must have been exhilarating!”  

_Of fucking course._ A growl rumbled in Bucky’s throat, his tail lashing back and forth.  _This was a damn set up from the moment I woke up.  Room in a tower with a window?  That wasn’t a fucking oversight or a show of generosity! This wasn’t even a test to see if I’d stay put – they expected me to try to escape!  It was a test to see if the wings worked, and to make sure the summons did too._   

“-Unfortunately,” Fairbanks continued, “such disobedience cannot be ignored.  It pains me to have to do this as well, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to _command_ you to _HURT_ for what you’ve done.”

Bucky thought that he had known pain before, but the moment Fairbanks pronounced his command the pentagram on Bucky’s shoulder exploded with white-hot agony.  It was worse than the beatings, worse than any injury he’d sustained during the war, the rituals, or the back alleys combined – it was a pain that hijacked his nerves and filled him with abject misery that seemed to have no beginning or end.  An infernal screech deafened him, drowning out even the howling wind before he even realized it was tearing free of his own throat.  Blood welled up from the pentagram scar, spilling hot and running in rivulets between the plates of his demon-arm before, finally, the pain released him and Bucky fell boneless against the cold cement floor.  

His body still shook in aftershocks as if he’d been electrocuted.  His head swam, his memory and vision spotty as if he’d been kicked in the head by a fucking horse.  Even the simple act of breathing was a labored task.  Where was… what had happened?  

Distantly, Bucky realized that Fairbanks had turned to leave, and while he could hear that he was talking, it took him a few moments to resolve those sounds into words, “I am disappointed, _Carus_ , but let this serve as a lesson: acting out will result in punishment.  We will speak more after you and General Lukin have discussed your transgression, but do remember that it is not too late for you to choose work with us.  In the meantime, you are under the standing orders to remain in this room until I say otherwise.”

_Oh shit._

<“You must think we are stupid,”> Lukin’s voice took the place of Fairbanks’s and Bucky curled in on himself, head still reeling.  <“Did you think we did not anticipate such an escape attempt?  You have no options, demon.  You cannot hurt us.  You must follow orders, and now you know that you must come when you are called.  Where did you even think you were going to go, looking like this?” Lukin gestured with both hands to Bucky’s crumpled form, pointedly staring with derision.  “You are a monster, and this is the only place for you.”>  

_I can’t get away, I can’t fight back! Maybe I did die when I fell from the train and this is my own personal hell._

<“Not so mouthy now, are you?”>  Lukin nodded to the two guards, who approached with rifles ready.  <“Fairbanks is too soft on you, and yet you still insist on biting the hand that feeds you.  I shall let you in on a little secret, demon: if Fairbanks cannot get you to behave with his methods, we will switch to mine.”> Lukin let his threat hang in the air, <“In the meantime, thanks to your show of disobedience, you have given me the opportunity to test your new capabilities in another fashion.  Consider this a taste, and remember this if you consider acting out in the future.”>

 _You wanted me to try this,_ Bucky thought miserably to himself, _not just to see what I could do, but_ _you wanted an excuse to punish me, you sadistic bastard._

<“After all, in order to be a functional asset, you will need to be able to take some damage when you are in the field before being reduced to a whimpering cock slut.  Let us see how much that has changed now that your transformation has finally completed.”>  The room was already freezing thanks to the broken window, but it was the dawning realization of what Lukin was planning that made Bucky’s blood turn to ice.  <“The hurt command might be an effective lesson, but it is all pain and no damage; it does not edge you closer to heat.  But this will.”>

A scream broke Bucky’s stubborn silence when a boot came down hard on Bucky’s wing, grinding the membrane between the heel and the pavement.   His wings jerked inwards, the plates shifting to sheathe and protect the limbs.  

<“Interesting.”> Lukin murmured as the hard plates smoothed over his back.  <“You see, we are already learning so much, you and I.” >

Bucky wished he could at least fight back and tear that smug smile off of Lukin’s face, but all his anger, hatred and pain amounted to was a defiant glare as he pushed himself to his knees.  “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but you’re going to pay for this someday, Lukin.”  

<“Empty threats from a broken man.”>  Lukin gestured and a shot rang out.  

Bucky howled as a lancing pain drove into his thigh.  It was a real bullet – not the tranqs they’d been using before!  Bucky gaped, staring as blood began to ebb from a gunshot wound in the meat of his leg.  “You shot me-” Bucky stammered.  

<“But we will remake you, stronger, resilient and loyal.”> Lukin continued, ignoring Bucky’s distress.    

It hurt like a motherfucker, but not as bad as Bucky had expected a gunshot to feel, and not nearly as bad as the crippling pain from Fairbanks’s command.  But why in the fuck were they using live rounds?  They kept going on about how valuable he was; what if they accidentally killed him? 

_Would that really be so bad at this point_?  

The answer came in the form of a strange squeezing sensation in the wound on his leg.  Before his eyes, his body began to expel the slug from the injury on its own, falling to the concrete floor with a TINK.  “Holy hell…” Bucky gaped as the wound began to knit closed before his eyes. 

A second shot split the silence, followed by a third, striking him in the other leg and the gut.  Bucky’s pain flared into anger as he pushed himself to his feet with an inhuman roar.  As the wounds seeped, and he could feel the disturbing sensation of bullets wriggling loose in the wounds, Bucky grabbed the rifle from one of the guards, wresting it forcefully from his hands.  In a flash, the barrel was pointed to Lukin with Bucky’s finger on the trigger. 

Lukin didn’t flinch.  Instead, his eyes narrowed in satisfaction as a humorless smile flickered on his face.  <“What are you going to do, demon?  You cannot hurt us.”>  Seconds ticked by, but Bucky couldn’t manage to make himself squeeze the trigger.  <“But thank you, for proving that you can still be functional even when injured.”>

Lukin snapped his fingers, and one of the guards turned his rifle around, slamming the stock hard against Bucky’s cheek.  By the time Bucky was back on his feet, Lukin was leading the two guards past the threshold and into the hallway.  They didn’t even bother taking the rifle from him.  The fact he was so helpless, even armed, was more leeching to Bucky’s resolve than the healing gunshots or the freezing wind still pouring into the room.

Lukin turned, his eyes steely, <“Russia’s greatest strength is its winters.  It beats down, starves, and freezes any who think to claim her.  Like Russia, you will endure.  You will punish.  You will be frigid and unforgiving.  You, demon, will be what Russia brings to Hydra.”>

As soon as they were gone, Bucky upended his cot, shoving it in front of the open window to muffle the relentless wind, though it did little to help the freezing temperatures already permeating the room.  

The second gunshot healed markedly slower than the first, and the third stopped healing altogether about halfway through; the bleeding stopped, but the center of the wound remained raw and open.  However, the lust Bucky expected to hit like a sledgehammer in response instead only flickered awake, growing gradually like a raising water table during heavy rains.  He could feel it coming, knew he was going to have to feed sooner or later, but his body was forestalling it. 

_Fuck._   His body was conserving energy so he could, as Lukin had gloated, remain ‘functional even when injured.’  He snarled, raising the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger, sending shots out into the empty hallway until the rifle clicked as impotently as Bucky felt.  _No!  Fuck this!_   He wasn’t going to just give in and go quietly!  He wasn’t finished!  

Ignoring his pain, he snapped the rifle over his knee, shouting in satisfaction as the weapon broke in half.  It wasn’t enough.  He set upon the pieces of the rifle, breaking and breaking and breaking until it had been rendered to pieces.  He tore through the room like a wild animal, scoring gashes in the stone walls with his claws and screaming curses and monstrous screeches to the sky. 

He raged for hours until finally, spent and aching, he curled up in a corner.  His shouts converted to whispered prayers, _Please, God, let Steve somehow find out I’m still alive and imprisoned here.  He’d come for me… I know he’d still come for me!_

*

Twice they checked on him, but when Bucky wasn’t on his knees begging for sex, they left again.

Bucky felt the stirrings of hunger.  Fantasies of satisfying his urges and healing his wound drifted through his mind.  His body wanted it, but it didn’t yet _need_ it; his pride was still stronger than his sexual appetite.  

The sun rose and set before his mind was inevitably flooded with lust.  

*

Things got hazy once the lust set in, but humiliating flashes haunted him afterwards.  

They let him squirm even after his eyes blackened with desire.  Lukin stood across the threshold, scrawling notes in a journal while Petrov and Oleg – fucking Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Nasty – watched with sick grins.

They baited him, knowing he couldn’t cross the damn threshold, laughing at him as he dripped with need and did nothing to hide their disgust when they saw his monstrous erection.  _It wasn’t his!  That wasn’t his cock!_ And yet it was – every pulse, every ache, every flash of arousal was fused to his nerves, not allowing him to deny how good it felt when he touched it, stroked it, ran his fingers along the ridges.  

And when they finally – _finally!-_ entered the room, they came at him with glyphed shackles.  Too lust-mad to struggle, Bucky went for Petrov’s cock while Oleg jerked his hands behind him and secured the cuffs around them.  The strength faded from his limbs, and when he couldn’t hide his erection fast enough at Oleg’s orders, he earned a painful kick to the ribs, and another to his groin that did nothing to flag his erection. 

Oleg held him back, and in the cuffs Bucky was as weak as a kitten.  <“Do not let me see that disgusting prick of yours again.”> Oleg barked into his ear, <”Even your whore scent is not enough to make that attractive.”>  He knew Oleg was a piss-poor excuse for a human being, but the words still lingered with him, compounding his shame.  

He felt Oleg enter him from behind even as Bucky remembered straining to reach Petrov’s with his mouth.  They laughed, Oleg holding him back as Bucky tried to stretch closer, knowing how it looked but unable to show a lick of shame at their crowing laughter.  The only thought in Bucky’s mind that crowded out everything else was how hungry he was.

Then his body provided the answer.  Driven by desperation, he discovered another fucking surprise about his new body: his tongue stretched longer, inch by inch, until it was nearly as long as his cock.  

<“Ugh, and I thought that we had already seen how much of a nasty beast it was!”> Oleg gaped, but Bucky was at least spared from having to see his face.  He could reach Petrov – and oh, yes – it tasted so good!

Petrov’s protests converted to moans the moment it wrapped around his dick.  Even Oleg’s disdainful sniggers went silent as the chain reaction began, sending the three of them spilling over the edge.  When he finally tasted their orgasms, Bucky’s mind reeled as much with relief as the wash of pleasure when the vicegrip of lust released him.  

_It’s over_.  _Finally!  Please just leave me alone now!_

He pulled off of Petrov, his tongue quickly receding back to its normal length.  Bucky emerged from the heat like the first breath of air after a deep dive, and could feel the warm tingle of the gut wound finally knitting the rest of the way closed, but he still couldn’t struggle out of their grasps with the glyphed manacles around his wrists.  

“Who said that you were done?” Lukin’s voice startled him – from right behind him!  His words came with a crack across the jaw from Oleg before Lukin’s cock was thrust up Bucky’s ass.  He wasn’t hungry, he wanted to be anywhere but here, but his hard on raged, unrelenting, as Lukin bent him over and took him.  

<“Whether or not you are on heat, demon, your body is ours to use.”> Lukin’s voice pelted him like rocks. 

Past the point of his heat, Bucky’s physical arousal never permeated his mind as Lukin fucked him.  He hated it, he didn’t want this, didn’t need it, didn’t want to be like this, but his body still responded and welcomed Lukin in, his rough thrusts sending waves of pleasure straight to Bucky’s cock.  When the general came, Bucky’s body lit up and came along with him, reeling in the sudden flood of pleasure that filled his soul with energy and ecstasy.

He couldn’t shake him off, he couldn’t fight back.  His arms cuffed behind his back also served the dual purpose of pinning down his wings.  Petrov’s strong hands held his shoulders tightly, keeping him from squirming away.  Lacking any other option, Bucky changed tactics, bearing down instead.  If he could ride out Lukin’s orgasms and drain him unconscious, he’d at least stop and they’d have to leave him alone. 

Before Bucky could knock him out, Petrov and Oleg seemed to figure out what was going on.  Petrov’s anchoring hands reversed their grip, pulling Bucky off.  _Thank God._

Oleg grabbed Lukin by the shoulders, <“Sir, you said to stop you If-”>

<“GET AWAY FR-“> Lukin began, and Bucky caught a glint of fury in Lukin’s eyes, but the primal anger evaporated in a flash.  The general caught himself, shook his head and adjusted his uniform as if there had never been an outburst.  “That is enough for today,” he corrected himself, eyes darting to Petrov and Oleg as if daring them to say something.

When they remained silent, tucking themselves away, Lukin cast a steely glance down at Bucky.  <”Do not think I don’t know what you were trying to do.  I had considered moving you, but I think you will stay here tonight, to remind you of the Russian Winters.  The cold will not kill you, but that does not mean that you will enjoy it.”>  

  
The men turned, leaving him still bound on the floor, naked, and crusted with the freezing remnants of sex.  Unable to move, the heat of intercourse swiftly drained into the cold stone floor.  Shivering, Bucky did the only thing he could think to do: he wrapped his wings around himself like a cocoon and tried to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH again to [ CobaltMoony](https://cobaltmoony.tumblr.com/) for the fantastic mid-chapter illustration for this chapter and all the  
> attention to detail/working with me on the art piece! <3  
> You can reblog the image from tumblr  
> [HERE](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/162182135758/cobaltmoonysart-demon-bucky-an-illustration)!


	12. Chapter 12

Sleep came, but offered little solace against the cold.  

_Bucky found himself lost in an endless frozen tundra.  Snow smothered the ground as far as he could see in every direction, obliterating any landmark and converting the landscape into a uniform wasteland.  Bucky trudged through hip-deep snow that numbed his legs, but as he forded through the snowbank, every trace of his passage closed up immediately behind him, leaving him disoriented and robbing him of any sense of having moved at all._

_He cast his gaze upwards, struggling to find a point of reference, but sunlight only came in the form of a cold, diffuse glow through the haze of a blanket of clouds._

_Suddenly, as if punishing him for hoping, the clouds exploded into a flurry, filling the air with a blizzard so powerful the sky turned as white as the ground.  Fear seized him as the whiteout consumed the world; driving gales stung his eyes with icy shards.  Blind, he tried to run, but the snow piled up around him so rapidly that it was burying him alive.  The air had become so thick with snow that when he tried to scream, he choked, his lungs filling with slush._

_Solid cold bound him, strangled him, and grew more oppressive the more he tried to struggle fruitlessly against his icy coffin.  Every moment felt like it would be his last: that the asphyxiation or relentless cold would at least end his torture, but even the peace of oblivion was robbed from him as time itself froze._

_Then, as mounting panic threatened to spill into madness: warmth.  A golden rope extended like a ladder, pulling him out of the snowy prison and into…_

Bucky awoke with a gasp, horror lancing through him when wakefulness did nothing to return his vision or dispel the sensation of being swaddled in ice.  Before his mind caught up, his body jerked reflexively, wings whipping off of him.  Bucky blinked, his eyes focusing as his breath came in heaves, the world finally resolving around him once more.  

“Shhh, shhh, my _Carus_ , do not be frightened.” Elliot Fairbanks lay his palm tenderly against Bucky’s cheek, the warmth of his skin recalling the sensation that woke him from his frozen nightmare.  

Bucky wanted to draw back, spit in his face and curse at Fairbanks – who had the gall to come up here wearing a damn coat while Bucky was curled up naked in the freezing room.  Still sluggish, half-frozen, and shivering, that warm touch was a relieving balm that Bucky didn’t have the strength to pull away from.  Instead, Bucky found himself pressing his cheek silently back into his hand, feeling the tears still frozen to his face begin to thaw.  

A smile graced Fairbanks’s face as he reached around Bucky with his other hand, unlocking the shackles that still bound Bucky’s wrists with a flick of a key.  They fell away with a clatter, strength pooling into Bucky’s limbs once more. “There you are; that’s better isn’t it?” Fairbanks crooned as if trying to soothe a wild animal.  

Bucky grunted noncommittally, working his way into a sitting position and wincing at the stiffness in his limbs and frozen reminders painted over his body of the night before.

A blanket settled over his shoulders and a bowl of honest-to-God warm soup pressed into his hands.  Bucky could have cried as he curled over the steaming bowl, savoring the feeling of steam thawing his face for a moment before he allowed himself to eat.  Christ, it was good.  He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he had eaten the first few spoonfuls, feeling the heat travel into him and radiate outwards, waking up his stomach and his limbs.  And so what if maybe he let a little murmur of appreciation rumble in his chest?  Fairbanks didn’t need to look nearly that pleased with himself. 

“Feeling a little better now, I hope?” Fairbanks coaxed as Bucky tried to ignore him, focusing instead on the soup.  

When Bucky answered him with nothing but silence, Fairbanks pressed on, annoyance lacing his tone, “Come now, there is no need to pout.  Look on the bright side: Even when you were overfed, you did not change, did you?   I told you the truth: you no longer have to worry about transforming further.  You are now what you will always be, and you are _beautiful_.”   
  
Bucky worked his jaw, shoulders stiffening at the reminder of Lukin’s ‘feeding’.  Raping Bucky hadn’t been enough; Lukin and his cronies had brandished shameful insults as liberally as their fists, making him feel disgusting and inhuman, something no longer capable of being loved.  So like it or not, Bucky caught himself easing slightly at the compliment: at least _someone_ still found him beautiful, even if it was a piece of shit Hydra scum like Fairbanks.  

Fairbanks eyed him and the line of tension that ran through Bucky’s posture when he mentioned the over-feeding.  “I am sure that Lukin’s punishment was harsh, but I _did_ warn you that there would be repercussions for acting out.” 

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to Fairbanks, scrutinizing him.  _Had_ he actually warned him about that?  Sure, he’d said something _after_ he’d been summoned back, and it was kind of common sense that his fucking captors were going to punish him for trying to escape – again – but Bucky couldn’t recall Fairbanks actually giving him a warning about that in advance.  Lukin had, right?  But… Fairbanks had been honest with him if nothing else in this madhouse, he must have at some point and Bucky just didn’t remember.  

Bucky gave a one-shoulder shrug, clutching the bowl a little tighter.  “Can’t blame me for trying,” He finally spoke up with a curled lip, voice scratchy.  

Fairbanks sighed through his nose, “Well, we can, actually.  Haven’t we been on this Merry-Go-Round long enough?  You know where these little tantrums of yours lead, and the only one suffering for them is you.  I do not wish to see you prolong your own misery; it is past time that you accept your fate.”  

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Bucky muttered, eyes going steely. “Punish me, bribe me, I will _never_ agree to work with you.” Maybe they could command him to do things, but he refused to be complicit.  They couldn’t keep up their guard forever.  He’d fight through any way he could: loopholes in wordings, taking advantage of moments of neglect, or somehow getting word to the right people ( _to Steve.._.)  Even if he would only be going home to be arrested, studied, or killed, at least it wouldn’t be Hydra.  

“I for one am a bit tired of this ride, _Carus_ -“

Bucky cut him off before he had the chance to continue, anger flaring.  “I’m not your damn _Carus_ , whatever the fuck that means.  I have a name!  It’s Bucky, or at least James, which you seem to have conveniently forgotten.” As he spoke, his words bolstered his strength more so even than the soup or the blanket.  

“It is time that you leave the trappings of your old life behind.” Fairbanks’s eyes settled pointedly on the curve of his horns.  “You are something so much greater than the mere man you were before.”  

“Like _hell_.  I don’t give a damn what you _turned me into_!  You fuckers didn’t scoop me out of here.  I’m still James Buchanan Barnes!”  Bucky sat up straighter, meeting Fairbanks’s eyes with steely resolve.  

“What is it that you are even fighting for other than some stubborn sense of pride?  Is it merely the principal of the matter?” Fairbanks pressed, apparently not willing to just drop the subject this time.  

“What the fuck do you care?” Bucky snapped, jutting his chin “You’ve proven that you can command me to do whatever the hell you want me to do.  Why do you care if I like it or not?”

“General Lukin may not care for your mental wellbeing, but I do.  I do not wish for you merely to go along with it.  If you were to accept and understand your role, then we can move forward and I can reward you for your allegiance – and there are many things I can give you.” Fairbanks gestured pointedly to the soup and blanket.  “This is merely a _taste_.  Lukin’s offer would not be nearly so considerate.  Trust me when I tell you it would be for your own best interest to work with me.  I am offering you a home and a chance to do great things.”

“You might as well rid yourself of that dream now, Fairbanks, because it ain’t gonna happen.”  He’d heard this offer before, and he wasn’t a damn traitor that could be bribed or threatened to turn his back on his principals.  Fairbanks could shine that turd all he wanted, Bucky would never believe that Hydra’s idea of “great things” spelled anything but oppression under another tyrant. “I’m not interested in anything that Hydra thinks is a good idea.”

“Look at this logically: what hope – what out do you have?  Allow me to spell out the situation that you are in.” Fairbanks began to tick of the points on his fingers, “Your country would never accept you, especially now that you cannot expect to hide what you are any longer.”  Fairbanks extended a second finger, “As you just said yourself, I can command your action or inaction.”   He gestured to the broken window as he extended a third finger, “You have seen how far your escape attempts get you: I can call you back with a word.”  As he extended the last two fingers of his hand, Fairbanks gave Bucky an exasperated look.  “You cannot hurt us, and I certainly will not give you the out of ending your life.”  Fairbanks took a breath, scrutinizing Bucky’s guarded expression.  “I am not trying to be cruel, but it is time that you faced the reality of your situation.”

Bucky hunched protectively over the remaining soup, wings poising like a falcon guarding its prey.  Fairbanks wanted him to give up, stop fighting him and making him look bad in front of Lukin, Zola, or whatever other Hydra heads were backing him.  Whether or not Fairbanks got him to do what he wanted, the fact Bucky was fighting him every step of the way and exploiting loopholes was making his job a lot harder.  The fact he was here rubbing Bucky’s nose in his lack of options might as well have been proof of that.  He just needed to hang on…  until… until Steve found out where he was, and keep giving Hydra as much hell as he could in the meantime.  

Fairbanks nodded to himself, “Nothing to say to that?  I think that is because I know the answer, _Carus_.”  At Bucky’s silent glare, Fairbanks continued, “Your Captain: he knew about you, didn’t he?  We have suspected as much.  You think he will still come for you if he finds out where you are, don’t you?”

The ridges raised down Bucky’s back as his eyes narrowed dangerously.    

Fairbanks hummed with a smile at Bucky’s damn tell.  “I thought so.  No need to get defensive; I am not the General, and I am not looking for leverage here, _Carus_.”  Fairbanks’s voice was soft and earnest.  “It is only natural to confide in someone close to you about something so traumatic that you were experiencing.”  His face softened, his eyes casting downwards to his satchel as he fooled with the straps.  “I did not want to tell you beforehand when things were so fresh.  I know how much your friend meant to you and wanted to find a way to let you down gently.”  

_Wait, what?_   No no no – he couldn’t be implying what Bucky thought.  “What are you saying?” Bucky demanded, panic welling in his chest.  

“Your Captain… your friend?  He is gone.  He died putting an end to the Red Skull.”  Bucky didn’t even register Fairbanks’s expression over the din building in his ears.  

“Bullshit!” Bucky snarled, not even giving a damn if his visceral reaction tipped his hand.  “No – NO!  You would have said something sooner if that was true!  Lukin – he would have rubbed my nose in it!  I don’t believe you!”  The words tore from his raw throat, cracking at the end like a teenager. 

“I am truly sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” Fairbanks said as he produced a newspaper from his satchel.  Before he had the chance to offer it, Bucky snatched them from his hands.

The headline accosted him, “THOUSANDS GATHER FOR FUNERAL OF CAPTAIN AMERICA”.

Bucky tried to process the article past the headline, but found himself unable to read forward.  Instead, his eyes hung on the splash image that dominated the front page of the paper: a massive gathering of people stood in procession at Arlington Cemetery.  A marble statue of Captain America, bedecked in the full stars and stripes with his shield raised to the sky, loomed above a headstone:

  
Captain America  
Captain Steve Grant Rogers  
July 4, 1918 – March 4, 1945

  
There was an inscription beneath the dates, but the resolution of the image was too poor to make it out.  Riflemen poised near the foreground of the image, barrels raised towards the sky in a 21 Gun Salute, but Bucky’s eyes were drawn to the unmistakable woman standing next to the headstone.  Even with her face streaked with tears and visibly wracked with grief, Peggy Carter cut a formidable presence.  

His eyes blinked rapidly and Bucky felt far away from his body, not even aware of the words he was saying until they left his mouth.  “This isn’t for Steve.  It’s for _Captain America._ That fucking statue is literally overshadowing his real name,” Bucky croaked.  “He should be next to his ma.”

Fairbanks was still talking, but it was just swirling noise in Bucky’s ears.  More than anything, Bucky wanted the newspaper to be fake, to be just another weapon in Hydra’s arsenal to chip away at Bucky’s remaining resolve, but something in his gut knew better.  The date of Steve’s death was only a little over a month after his fall from the train.  There had been a moment after the fall – Bucky had wanted to believe it was just another nightmare – when he woke up to an unbearable pain lancing through his heart screaming Steve’s name.  He _had_ been bound to Steve; he had felt his death.  For some reason, that fact was what finally did it; Bucky’s heart shattered in his chest.  A drop of water splattered onto the newsprint, the ink bleeding black where it hit.  Bucky set the paper down with shaking hands, wiping at his face.  

One month, one _fucking_ month later and Steve gave his life to stop Red Skull.  Grief crashed with paradoxical laughter as the floodgates opened.  Bucky tried to sacrifice his own life to save Steve’s, and he managed to fail at both.  “I was supposed to be watching over him,” Bucky sobbed, no longer giving a shit about losing his resolve in front of his captors.  “The fucking reckless idiot…  Of course… of fucking course he had to go die when I wasn’t looking.  Of course...” his words stuck in his throat like glue.  

Bucky crumpled.  He wasn’t out there having the happy ending he fucking deserved with Peggy.  Steve was dead, and so was Bucky’s last remaining bastion of hope. He wasn’t coming for him.  He was never going to see him again, and the world was a hell of a darker place minus Steve Rogers.  It was selfish, so fucking selfish to even think, but _Bucky’s_ world was darker knowing Steve was gone from it.  “He’s gone...” he keened, doubling over, nose running and vision blurry from the tears that came unbidden.  

There had been close calls growing up in Brooklyn when pneumonia had settled into his lungs, moments on the battlefield when a close-strike from a mortar stole Bucky’s breath, but Bucky had never _lost_ Steve.  Every time, the stubborn son of a bitch had carried on despite the odds.  It seemed like some crazy, mixed up _mistake_ that something had finally taken his life.  He couldn’t imagine a world without Steve Rogers: without his self-depreciating smile, determined set of his jaw, and utter unwillingness to back down from a fight if it was the right thing to do, no matter the cost.  Or, the realization hollowed him out, never again would he see that warm smile reserved just for him, the unwavering faith even when it wasn’t deserved, or his unbridled passion that shone like the sun.  

“He’s _gone_ ,” Bucky echoed, the finality weighing on him like Atlas. 

Fairbanks’s hand wrapped lightly around Bucky’s human shoulder, jerking him back to the present.  “Don’t fucking touch me!”  It was supposed to be a snarl, but instead the words came out jagged and broken and did nothing to dissuade Fairbanks.  

“You see now.  There is no point in fighting us any longer.”  Fairbanks’s voice was soft, but Bucky bristled at the man’s sheer gall.

“Not _fucking now!_ ” Bucky hissed.  “Don’t you dare talk to me.  He died trying to stop you - trying to stop Hydra!”  
  
“He died helping end the war,” Fairbanks corrected gently, “and he saved millions of lives in the process.  The Red Skull went mad years ago thanks to Erskine’s serum, and your Captain did us all a service in putting him down.  He led astray so many of our Hydra youths who were impatient for change and  eager to follow a figurehead who promised to bring our organization into the limelight.”  A flicker of something crossed Fairbanks’s face before he pressed on, the emotion resolving into a sneer. “Schmidt sought to level his enemies without prejudice: he crafted bombs to destroy cities full of men, women and children: soldiers and civilians alike.  Captain America stopped him, but he died before he was able to stop your own government from using the very same tactics.  We have been through this, but I think you are finally ready to listen.”  
  
Bucky wrapped his arms around himself, shaking his head adamantly, but the tears wouldn’t stop rolling down his cheeks.   
  
“War makes monsters out of men.  It is my goal to put an end to war once and for all, like this one that took your friend.” Fairbanks saw his opening and drove his words home, “If you search your heart, you will see that we both want the same thing.  You have a place here; you can help us bring about an era of peace to all of mankind.”  
  
“I’m not the only monster here,” Bucky muttered weakly. 

“Maybe not.  I have seen two wars in my lifetime and they have changed me.  Perhaps not in as obvious ways as it has you, but I am doing what I can to end them in the future.  Hydra is the organization with the mettle to take the steps necessary to unite the world under a banner of peace, where only the warmongers, the murderers and terrorists need fear.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?”  Bucky met Fairbanks’s eyes with a sardonic croak.  

Fairbanks cupped Bucky’s chin with a tender smile, “Peace is never free, my friend, but our way is much cheaper than these endless wars that take millions of civilian lives.”  He gave his cheek a soft pat, straightening up.  “Think about it.”  
  
Bucky dropped his head, the image of Steve’s funeral staring up at him in harsh black and white.  “I want to be alone.”

Fairbanks tilted his head.  “Are you certain?  You could join me downstairs, if you like.  With the window broken-”  
  
“I don’t care.” Bucky cut him off, his voice as hollow as he felt. 

“Very well.”  Fairbanks said, pulling his coat tighter around himself.  “I will leave you to mourn.  You can keep the paper, although I’m afraid it will not offer you any comfort.  I’ll come back to check on you later and… _Carus_?”  Bucky’s eyes reflexively flicked back up to Fairbanks, “If you need someone to speak with, I am no stranger to loss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow, a HUGE thanks to [Cryo-Bucky](https://cryo-bucky.tumblr.com/) for this AMAZING piece of artwork done for my birthday! ;_; <3 <3 <3  
>  I absolutely ADORE IT! Seriously amazing piece of art with such a classical art feel!  
> 
> 
> [ Reblog it from Tumblr here](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/162828092813/cryo-bucky-happy-late-birthday-araniaart)


	13. Chapter 13

  
Bucky lost count of how many times he poured over the article.  No matter how many times his eyes skimmed over the now-familiar words, reading it never got any easier.  Regardless, Bucky couldn’t put it down, not even when he had practically memorized the entire two-page story and details about Steve’s ‘noble sacrifice’ and tear-filled funeral.  When he closed his eyes, all he saw was the letters marching across the page proclaiming the loss of Captain America.  Ostensibly, Bucky told himself he was looking for anything that would ring untrue, some giveaway that would prove that the article was a phony.  Deep down, Bucky knew that as long as he busied himself re-reading the same passages over and over again, he was drowning out the grief inevitably building in the back of his mind.  He wasn’t ready to process it.  Truth be told, Bucky wasn’t sure if he was ever going to be ready to process the fact that Steve was _gone_.   
  
Distantly, Bucky registered approaching footsteps and a rattling of something on wheels, but even that didn’t spur him to move from the same spot he’d been in for hours, curled up in the blanket in the corner of the room.  Where was he going to go?  The _other_ corner of the room?

When the door opened, Bucky didn’t bother looking up.  “Leave me alone, Fairbanks, I don’t want to fucking talk to you.” 

A derisive snort finally drew his eyes away from the paper and the bottom dropped out of his stomach when he saw Lukin and two uniformed soldiers – a man and a woman – standing just inside the threshold of his room.  The man swallowed nervously as he pointed a rifle in Bucky’s direction; the woman held a pair of glyphed manacles in her hands, her blonde hair tied back into a severe braid and her expression inscrutable.  When Bucky noticed Lukin wearing a satchel uncannily similar to Fairbanks’s, his throat went dry.  

Lukin smiled nastily.  <“I am not Fairbanks, and you are sorely mistaken if you think you have any choice in the matter.  Ulyana.  Restrain him.”>

Briefly, the thought of trying to put up a fight flitted through Bucky’s mind.  He couldn’t leave the room: Fairbanks had seen to that.  He couldn’t hurt anyone, no matter how hard he wanted to turn his pain and grief onto the Hydra fuckers in the room with him right now.  The best outcome was merely frustrating Lukin and his guards by giving chase in some twisted parody of a tag game until they beat him down or sedated him.  Bucky sighed, his shoulders slumping as the woman moved forward with her jaw set and a steely warning in her eyes.  

_What was even the fucking point anymore?_ Bucky thought miserably to himself as the manacles clamped over his wrists, _Steve’s gone.  Everyone who ever knew me thinks I’m dead, and it would be even worse for everyone involved if they DID know I was still alive.  I’d just drag down anyone who would help me at this point, assuming there even IS anyone who would still help me like this._ He bit his lip, avoiding eye contact with the soldiers in the room. _If mom and dad… if Becca could see me now: what I’ve become and what I’ve done… these depraved and twisted needs?  Maybe it’s better this way…_

<”Retract you wings,”> Lukin barked, threatening him with a cattleprod.  Bucky eyed it despondently for a moment before obliging, folding the appendages and shifting the plates to tuck the wings away.  _I’m just biding my time_ , Bucky told himself, _lulling them into a false sense of control.  Besides, no sense in getting the bejeezus shocked out of me on top of everything else today._

Ulyana hefted Bucky up from his armpits and onto a gurney that Lukin wheeled in from the hallway as the other guard kept back a dozen paces with the rifle trained on him.  She shot the other guard a withering glance before fastening a woven metal belt around his waist, securing him to the table.  

_But you know what they say about wearing a mask too long: sometimes you forget who you are underneath it._

A needle pressed against the inside of his right elbow, stalling for a moment until Ulyana pressed harder and it finally broke the skin and slid into his vein.  Heat blossomed, racing up into his chest before his head started to tingle.  _At least Steve died thinking I went down serving my country and not Hydra._

<“500mg of phenobarbital, sir.”>  Ulyana said crisply, sliding out the syringe and replacing it quickly with another needle connected to an IV bag.  She secured the catheter in place and checked on the IV stand.  Bucky distantly noted that the line was empty and followed it with his eyes to where the bag remained clamped.

<“Are you still with me, Demon?> Lukin goaded, snapping his fingers next to Bucky’s ear, causing him to turn his head quickly at the noise.  Lukin hummed, nodding to himself.  <“I thought as much.  Your tolerance has grown significantly since your changes have completed.”>

Bucky scowled, leaning his head back against the table.  Dredging up the wherewithal to give a damn about Lukin testing his drug responses seemed like a monumental task at the moment.  As far as he was concerned, the faster he found the dosage he needed and knocked him out, the better.  At least then he’d be able to sleep without seeing Steve crashing a plane behind his eyes every time he shut them.  

<”You have nothing to say to me?”> Lukin snorted dismissively before wandering over to the makeshift nest Bucky had made for himself in the corner, snatching up his newspaper.  <”I see… You have finally realized you have no recourse.”>

Bucky set his jaw, staring pointedly at the ceiling.  It wasn’t _about_ that.  It wasn’t _just_ about that at least.  Steve was the one who was supposed to go home, go on and have a happy life.  But _no_.  Instead, Steve had to be a damn martyr and get himself killed, and here Bucky was - alive when he didn’t deserve to be.   

Lukin considered him for a moment before calling out an order to the young man with the rifle, <”Fetch the tray from the hallway.  He’s not going anywhere.”>

<”Yes, sir.  And… sir?  If my presence isn’t needed immediately, can I go fetch a coat, because-”> The young man stuttered into silence at the glare Lukin fixed on him.  He swallowed thickly and spun on his heel.  

_That’s right, Shithead.  You can deal with the fucking cold, too.  At least your ass isn’t naked._   Bucky scowled at his retreating form.

A metallic clatter signaled the arrival of a tray on wheels laden with an array of tools, each more unsettling than the last: scalpels, syringes, saws, and other instruments that Bucky couldn’t begin to wonder at their names or use.  

Bucky welcomed the distraction when a rustling of papers pulled his attention back to Lukin… until he saw the source.  The sight of the familiar red-bound book clutched in Lukin’s hands managed to penetrate the enveloping melancholy that had kept Bucky silent and resigned.  “Does he know you have that??” Bucky spluttered, eliciting a hooked smile.

<”That is none of your concern, Demon,”> Lukin flipped roughly through the tome, eyes skimming the pages.  <”Ah, here.  Ulyana, turn on the drip, lowest flow setting and begin recording.”> He glanced at the IV bag as she eased up the clamp, scrawling a note in the margin of one of the pages.  

Bucky felt the burn spreading through his arm and a fizzy sensation in his head again, but the glyphed manacles were still sapping his strength more than the drugs.  

<”Fairbanks wanted to delay your assessment, and I have begun to suspect that it is in the misguided interest of coddling you.”> Lukin muttered, and Bucky was unable to hide his look of distaste from the general’s scrutinizing eye.  <”Well, let’s begin, shall we?”>

“I’m guessing I don’t get a say in the matter.” Bucky muttered. 

Lukin snorted, <”No, you do not.  At least you have come to realize that.”> Lukin set the book down on the tray, selecting a scalpel instead.  He held it in the light for a moment, the blade glinting dramatically.  Bucky would have scoffed at Lukin’s showmanship if his stomach weren’t in the process of tying itself into knots.

Bucky held his breath as the blade came towards him, preparing himself for more pain. It was one thing to be unable to fight when the guards had come at him with fists, boots, and stun batons.  It was an entirely different level of horror to suddenly be transported back to the table in Kreischberg, bound and helpless and about to be subject to God-knew-what procedure.  

The blade of the scalpel tinked against the hardened plating of his left arm.  Bucky opened his eyes, watching as Lukin tapped and pressed intermittently between the outer plating and the gaps between the segments.  He barely felt it.  He let go of the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as Lukin moved the scalpel to his horns.  The timbre of the sound was nearly identical.

<”The hard, chitinous plates are quite resilient,”> Lukin narrated, <”with the appearance and durability of natural ore.  Significant pressure with stainless steel fails to mar the surface.  Previous experiments have shown the plating to stop live ammunition at ten meters.”>  

Bucky scowled, remembering the first time he had escaped his cell and foolishly let himself hope.  

<”Make a note of the time,”> Lukin instructed Ulyana as he moved the blade to his right arm.  He pressed the blade against Bucky’s forearm.  For a moment, the skin held fast against the pressure of the knife’s edge until Lukin pressed harder, drawing it swiftly along the skin.  Bucky hissed as blood welled up in the shallow cut.  <”Unarmored skin provides enhanced resistance to lacerations and punctures.”>  After only a few moments, the shallow slice knitted itself closed.  <”And end time.  Minor injuries heal rapidly, at least while the subject is well-fed.”>

Lukin watched Bucky carefully as he made another series of nicks with the scalpel on his torso, legs, soles of his feet, and tail.  Each time, despite managing school his expression to remain neutral, Bucky couldn’t keep his tail from twitching .  When Lukin took the blade to the angry scar tissue of the pentagram etched into his arm, the sudden stinging pain startled a shout out of him.  That fucker smarted like hell, even if closed up just as quickly as the other wounds.  His heart hammered in his chest and Bucky made another fruitless effort to wriggle out of the bindings.  

<”Immediate pain reaction after subsequent incisions.  Subject’s metabolism is compensating for phenobarbital at a drip rate of 1200mL per hour after an initial dose of 500mg.”>  Was that a note of surprise in Lukin’s voice?  <“Increasing drip rate.”>  

Bucky’s vision blurred as he felt another bite of heat in his arm as the clamp was removed altogether.  Blearily, Bucky registered Lukin selecting another tool (maybe two?) from the table, testing it against the plates of his arm.  Then, a few drops of some kind of liquid that was left to sit before a white powder was drizzled over it and the substance wiped away.  None of the attempts hurt, though Bucky couldn’t say whether it was due to the resilient material or the drugs, and Lukin’s words drifted past him.  He thought, maybe, Lukin snapped his fingers again near his ear again, but it sounded like he was underwater, and Bucky didn’t move.  His tail was lifted and dropped, slapping limply against the metal gurney.  

Every time Bucky blinked his eyes, the darkness hung over the room for longer than it felt like it should have.  Each stinging slice of the scalpels dredged him back out of the blackness, and Lukin and the guards were in a different position when his eyes snapped open once more.  

<”Flip him over.”> The words penetrated the haze as hands seized him.  He barely noticed the distant click of the strap around his waist releasing before he was rolled onto his stomach.  Nausea threatened to overtake him at the sudden movement, but Bucky didn’t even groan. 

Vibrations of more tapping resonated against the protective scaling that concealed his wings for a few minutes before fingers wedged underneath the plating.  With his muscles slack, they were able to pry up the ridges.  Meaty hands gripped the arm of his right wing, manually drawing it out.  Words floated above his head as fingers pinched the membranes, but Bucky was beyond the point of caring, choosing instead to cling to the sedated delirium as they continued to poke, prod, and slice at him.   
  
A clamor wrested Bucky’s attention back to Earth.  “LUKIN!  What in God’s green Earth do you think you’re doing!?” Fairbanks.  Unbidden relief rolled through him like rain after a drought as Lukin and his soldiers stepped away from the gurney.

Bucky couldn’t see what was going on, nor did he find he had the wherewithal to move his head to fix that, but when he gave a damn and focused, he could follow the thread of the conversation.   
  
“Ah, I see you decided to join us,” Lukin switched to English, his tone terse but level.  
  
“I didn’t give you the authority to do this!” Fairbanks’s voice rang out with barely-contained fury.  A moment later, Bucky felt a brief sting as the IV was removed from his arm; skin tearing anew where it had healed around the needle thanks to the tape having kept it in place.  Fairbanks’s hand lingered momentarily on his back, where his left wing was still retracted.  Within moments, Bucky was feeling more aware, but he kept himself absolutely still.  

Lukin answered Fairbanks with a derisive snort.  “I do not need your permission to carry out an examination, _Elliot_.  You are working too slowly; giving him information he does not need.  He is a tool, a weapon, not a person.  You are seeking validation and understanding from something incapable of doing so.”

Bucky had a mind to show Lukin exactly what he was capable of if Fairbanks would lift that fucking restriction about hurting anyone.

“Had it not been for my arrival, you would still be struggling to keep him contained, let alone put him to use,” Fairbanks countered. 

“You will not sway him; you need to understand him, and then break him.  When your soft touch does not work, I will be ready and waiting.  Do you really think that you are the only one who can read Latin?  It does not take a magician or a scientist to follow instructions.” 

_Oh fuck…_ Bucky cracked an eye open and managed to catch a glimpse of Lukin drumming his fingers on the cover of the book.   

Fairbanks went rigid.  “You took that from my quarters!  How _dare_ you?!”  Fairbanks snatched the book from the cart, clinging to it possessively.  “You were not the one entrusted with this, or with _him_.  He is my dominion first and foremost!” 

“Do not forget, _Colonel_ , that I outrank you, both in the military and in Hydra.  This base is under my command, and as long as you are stationed here, you will respect my authority.”  
  
“With all due respect, _sir,_ you do not understand the powers that you are dealing with.”  Fairbanks seethed between clenched teeth. 

“Neither, apparently, do you.”  Lukin waved a hand dismissively at Fairbanks.  “How many years did you dedicate to this project?  Do not think that I have not noticed that you are learning as you go just as I.”  

“You would do well to remember how many lives Zola went through to get this to work to begin with.  I do not want your careless experimentation costing Hydra its _only_ success.  I dare say it would not kill you to display a little patience and – God forbid – sympathy.”  Fairbanks’s voice brimmed with barely-restrained frustration.

“Sympathy will get you nowhere, Colonel.  This dog will bite the hand that feeds it, and the only solution is a muzzle and a tighter leash.”  Lukin stalked out of the room, trailed after by the two guards, leaving Fairbanks alone by Bucky’s side.  
  
Fairbanks stood rigidly still for a moment before letting out a long breath.  Bucky watched him plaster a smile onto his face as he turned back towards him, laying a hand on his shoulder.  Bucky caught the moment Fairbanks realized he was watching: after a momentary start, his smile reached his eyes.  “You areawake, then.  Well.  Don’t concern yourself with him, _Carus_.”  With a swift movement, Fairbanks undid the glyphed manacles and gently eased Bucky up to a seated position.  “You can continue to stay in this cold room if you like, but how about this instead: we get you out of this mess and let you get yourself cleaned up in the bath, hmm?”  

Bucky’s exhale came out as a thankful groan.  With the IV removed and the manacles off, he could feel some of his strength returning, but he was still so fucking tired; he ached with utter physical and emotional exhaustion.  Maybe it was giving in; maybe it was just allowing himself a small nugget of relief in this hellhole.  He was past the point of disentangling the difference; all he knew was that he wanted to slip into a hot bath and shut out the world.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, thank you SO much to [ DefilerWyrm](http://defilerwyrm.tumblr.com/) for this _amazing_ sketch commission of Demon!Bucky!   
>   
>   
> [ Reblog it on tumblr here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/163465704098/defilerwyrm-demonbucky-for-araniaart-as)


	14. Chapter 14

The entire room seemed to rock ninety degrees as Fairbanks managed to help Bucky to his feet.  For a moment, he just stood, swaying, clutching onto the older man’s shoulder and trying not to either lose his lunch or his balance.  Maybe if he kept his eyes squeezed shut, eventually the room would stop swimming and just stay goddamn still.  Or, maybe, he could just fall back asleep instead.  Either of those options sounded pretty damn great right now.  

What was he doing again?  

“I’m going to need to _command_ you to follow me, _Carus_ , if you want that bath.”  Oh, right.  A bath.  Fuck, yes, that sounded so nice.  However, the task of walking his ass however far away that was sounded pretty damn intimidating right now.  Yet, as Fairbanks started to move towards the door, Bucky’s feet managed to carry him along after him as if someone else were at the helm of his body.  

“Yes, good, there you go.” Fairbanks encouraged, nodding to himself as the commands won out over the sheer exhaustion Bucky would have struggled against on his own.  

Bucky only blearily noticed as Fairbanks swiped at the chalk glyphs outside his door with his shoe, smudging the precise runes.  When Fairbanks stepped across the threshold, the barrier no longer held Bucky back, and he continued to trail along after his handler.  

Bucky listed to the side as he followed along.  The hallway gradually spun to the right until Bucky ran abruptly into the wall.  Only then did he realize that one of his wings was still unsheathed from where Lukin had pried it out, its tips dragging listlessly along the stone hallway.   He drew in a few ragged breaths as he steadied himself against the wall, shifting his plates and trying to pull it back in.  It took a few tries of bending the still-new limbs the wrong way or missing the grooves, but eventually he managed… somewhat.  The covering plates didn’t seem to lock quite right, but at least he wasn’t off balance any more. 

Fairbanks’s hand was suddenly on his shoulder, steadying him.  “Your muscles are likely still dealing with the effects of the anesthetics.  Don’t concern yourself with it.  It’s not much further now.”  

Bucky’s head snapped up as the elevator he didn’t even realize he was standing outside of dinged open and Fairbanks escorted him into the metal cage.  

If the walk down the hallway was vertigo-inducing, the elevator ride might as well have been that first 86-foot drop of the Cyclone where it felt like his insides were going to come flying out of his mouth.  When the elevator came to a jerking halt, Bucky felt no shame as he bent over and emptied the scant contents of his stomach onto the brushed steel floor.  

By the time Fairbanks shuffled him out and led him down a vaguely familiar hallway, he was already feeling a little better after vacating his system.  Shaky, still bleary-eyed, but the nauseating vertigo had all but vanished.  

Fairbanks opened a door and the familiarity finally fished a memory to the forefront of his mind.  This was the same bathroom that he had been taken to before the final ritual.  The warm water of the bath was the only thing in this hellhole that had managed to leech the frostbitten stress from Bucky’s bones.  Clean, water-softened skin, scrubbed free of months’ worth of dirt, grime and the abuse of the guards had almost made him feel human again.  Familiar notes of the perfumed soap and lathers still hung in the room; the warm humidity that always lived in fancy bathrooms grasped at him invitingly.  Bucky would have been happy just to face-plant onto the warm flooring.  

He nearly had forgotten about Fairbanks until his voice penetrated the pleasant fog.  “Your orders are to enter and remain in this bathroom until I summon you. When I do, bring nothing with you but a towel.”  

Bucky felt the words coil around him like a serpent as his feet carried him over the threshold.  He glanced over his shoulder, still not quite trusting his mouth to be able to string together coherent words, but he gave the man a small nod.  

Fairbanks smiled at the display, a fact that very nearly made Bucky regret the small show of thanks.  He continued with no subtlety to his reciprocal concession, “You are welcome, _Carus._ In fact, take your time.  I will let you rest here: I’m certain it will be more comfortable than your room had become after you broke the window.” Fairbanks punctuated the backhanded accusation with a disarming chuckle.  “Feel free to use the facilities, anything in the cabinets, and take a bath.”  Then with a returned nod, Fairbanks slipped the door closed.  

Bucky didn’t even wait for Fairbanks’s retreating footfalls to fade before he let out a bone-shaking sigh.  After a brief moment on the toilet, Bucky cranked the handle on the tub all the way to hot, inserted the stopper, and slipped in.  

Bucky was out by the time the deliciously scalding water had reached his thighs.

*  
By the time Bucky woke up, the bathwater had grown tepid and the spigot had been shut off.  Bucky couldn’t _remember_ shutting it off, so either someone had come in while he was dead asleep and done so, or he’d done it in his sleep – both options seemed equally likely, but one was distinctly more unsettling.  

Despite the fact that the water had gone cold, Bucky still felt warmer and more rested than he had in weeks.  

He was half tempted to refill the tub with fresh water, but his pruning skin had had enough.  There was strength once more in his legs as Bucky rose to his feet; no jitter or vertigo assailed him as he stepped out of the tub and started toweling off.  

Bucky only barely flinched as he went to the sink counter beneath the mirror, avoiding staring too much at his horned reflection and instead focusing on taking a toothbrush and toothpaste to his frankly vile mouth. Trying not to think about the things he was scrubbing out, Bucky’s mind drifted back to the Howlies.  In the field, Gabe had sworn by a dental hygiene regiment and dry socks above all things.  Bucky’s heart clenched at the memories of banter around the campfire with Morita’s ribbing about how, ass-deep in enemy territory, Gabe would still barter away his chocolate rations for toothpaste.  

Bucky spat out the mouthful of minty foam just as the summons came over him.  The compulsion pulled at him like the jerk of a leash, and Bucky had no choice but to stop what he was doing and turn, striding out of the bathroom like it was on fire. 

He followed the invisible tug down the hallway in - mercifully - the opposite direction from the silo entrance where the rituals had been conducted.  As it turned out, he didn’t have far to go to find the source of the call.  He barely had time to wrap the towel around his waist before he found himself twisting the handle of a door less than a dozen feet away from the bathroom and stepping inside.  

“Welcome, _Carus_ , please come in.  Until I tell you otherwise, your orders are to remain in this room.” Fairbanks stood with his hands clasped behind his back in the center of what was architecturally just another windowless barracks room, however the residence had been made much cushier with the addition of a number of certainly non-regulation embellishments.  The mouthwatering scent of cooked meat drew Bucky in, the aroma emanating from a silver-domed plate cover sitting on an antique bedside table.  A record player poured Classical music into the air; _Monty probably could have identified it after just a few bars,_ Bucky found himself thinking.  A pair of elegant lamps with colored glass in a pattern more intricate than the stained glass at church lit the room with subdued, multihued tones. Between the lamps, a massive bed sheathed in deep plum silken sheets, mussed just enough to look inviting, swallowed up most of the floor space.  A large area rug with intricate designs in reds and creams covered the concrete flooring and lent a warmth to what would otherwise have been a chilly basement dwelling.  Bucky’s toes curled into the plush pile of the carpet as he stepped inside.  And okay, yeah, that felt pretty nice.  The last time he’d seen a rug that nice was when the Howlies had passed through a bombed-out theater in France, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to take off his boots in the middle of a warzone to feel the texture of a damn carpet.  Christ, his mind had been on the Howlies as of late.  Where were they? Had they gone home at the end of the war?  Did any of them think to look for his body?

Fairbanks didn’t interrupt him as he took inventory of the room, even as his eyes stole to a carved writing desk along the wall.  Bucky wet his lips.  _He probably keeps the book in one of those drawers.  Maybe when he’s not looking I could-_

His thoughts froze as he recognized what he was seeing on the desk calendar.  January _1948.  What.  The.  Fuck?!_ Bucky rounded on Fairbanks.  “1948?!  It was… you said it was 1945 less than a month ago!”

“Well, actually, I told you it was December.  I told you the war ended in 1945.  You connected those dots on your own.  But tell me, _Carus_ : what difference does it really make?”  
  
Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  He shook his head, stalling as his mouth worked to try to dredge up an answer.  Two years.  He was _two years_ out of date from when he thought it was. The war wasn’t just over, it was history.  By now, people – the Howlies, his family, anyone he ever called a friend would have moved on and buried him.  If _anyone_ out there still thought he was still alive, they would have given up on him by now.  

Bucky channeled his mute frustration into action.  He set upon the desk calendar with his claws, gouging right through the soft paper and into the hardwood of the desk itself.  Good.  He hoped it was as fucking expensive as it looked.  

“Stop it!” Fairbanks scolded him like a child.  “You are to cease your petulant destruction of property; that is an order!”  Bucky turned with a snarl, fingers still curled into impotent claws, but Fairbanks drew to Bucky’s side without hesitation, his voice soft once again. “Your home is here now.  Whatever you fear you have lost in those few years is irrelevant now.  Surely you have come to understand that by now.”  

Bucky shook his head tightly, but his ire was already smoldering to cold ash.  He couldn’t even whip up to gumption to stay angry anymore; every time he thought he had a fucking handle on his situation, it got worse.  Why should he still be surprised?  _That’s probably the point._

The frustration must have shown on his face because Fairbanks was guiding him to take a seat on the bed, and Bucky found that he didn’t have the heart to resist.  _What would be the point in that, either?  He can just fucking command me to do whatever he wants, anyway_.  

“Here, I figured you’d be hungry,” Fairbanks said as he set the nearby platter in Bucky’s lap and whisked the lid with a flourish, revealing actual pieces of steak smothered in a creamy sauce and what looked like thin French Fries.  Bucky had already shoveled three forkfuls into his mouth by the time Fairbanks continued speaking.  “The cooks here aren’t exactly top notch, but their stroganoff isn’t bad.”  
  
It was even still hot.  Tangy sour cream blended perfectly with the savory pieces of steak; the crisp potato straws adding the perfect crunch.  Like it or not, Bucky could feel his walls starting to crumble as a quiet hum of approval slipped past his lips.  

Fairbanks took his full mouth as a green light to continue talking.  “It could be like this, you know, every night.  Hot baths, good food, someone to listen to you and _hear_ what you have to say.  Even a warm bed to sleep in.”  

Bucky’s eyes narrowed skeptically, but he kept on eating; regardless of the carrot Fairbanks was dangling, he didn’t know the next time he’d have the opportunity to eat real food again.  “You’re talking as if I have a choice in the matter.”

“Precisely.  There are opportunities everywhere if you know where to look,” he said, taking a seat beside him on the bed.  Bucky pulled the plate closer to his chest, eating faster and wrapping his left arm protectively around it.  “But whether or not you’re willing to see them is an entirely different story.”  

“Yeah, right, and what’s the catch?”  Bucky muttered, mostly to himself, wiping up the last of the creamy sauce with a finger.  
  
“There is no ‘catch’ – it is merely a matter of facing reality.  No one is coming for you.  By now, you know this.” The newspaper headline flashed through Bucky’s mind and he couldn’t hide his wince as the weight of grief and desolation curled around his heart once more.  It didn’t matter that he’d caught some rest, he still felt so goddamn tired.   

Fairbanks set a hand on Bucky’s knee, doing a damn good impression of a sympathetic frown.   “Simply put, one way or another, you will work for us, _Carus_.  If Lukin is in charge of your trajectory, you will be experimented on and tested like a piece of stolen weaponry until he thinks he knows how to work you.  Just imagine this: for a lifetime, or longer, he will treat you like a rabid dog: only let off the chain when you are crazy and starving.”  Fairbanks allowed the full implications of that grim future to hang in the air.   
  
Bucky swallowed thickly, setting aside his clean plate.  And there was the stick.   He’d been under Lukin’s knife – and his boot – before.  He didn’t need Fairbanks to spell it out for him, but that didn’t mean that he liked the prospect of rolling over to Fairbanks’s sugar-coated fascism any better.  He could see where this conversation was headed.   “Or what?  I just go along willingly and work for you instead?  You know, just breaking all of my fucking codes of ethics?  Some choice, Fairbanks.”   
  
“You are a smart boy, but I don’t think you fully understand what it is I am offering you.”  Fairbanks leaned forward, his voice dropping into a whisper as if he were confiding in him.  “I know that you are more than what Lukin sees in you.  If we work together instead of at odds, we would be capable of so much.  I can offer you a true position by my side.”  The worst part was that Bucky could tell Fairbanks meant what he was offering.  It would be easier to just dismiss him outright if his proposal was just a sham, but Fairbanks actually believed in the horseshit he was shoveling.  

Bucky opened his mouth, but Fairbanks held up a hand before Bucky could dismiss his offer.  “There is more I can offer you: control.  Not only authority over other men, but also remaining in charge of your mental facilities.”  
  
“What do you mean by that?” A prickle of suspicion ran down Bucky’s neck at Fairbanks’s choice of phrasing.   
  
“Shh, listen: because of your nature, you will need to feed sooner or later.  If later, it will be in heat where you lose control of your very thoughts.  I can only imagine how terrifying and humiliating that is.” Fairbanks shook his head, pressing on, “You don’t _enjoy_ being starved to the point of madness, having to feed from those sadistic guards when you are out of your mind with lust, do you?”  
  
Bucky flinched at the memory of gunshots, of bullets ripping through his flesh the last time they forced him into heat.  “No, of course not, but-” 

“Well, to begin with, I can protect you from that.  Let me show you: rub yourself the way you like to when you are by yourself - that is an order.”  

“I’m not hungry-” Bucky started to protest even as his hand gravitated towards his still-flaccid prick.  The command was ambiguous enough that Bucky could have probably performed some mental acrobatics to get around it, but he wasn’t ready to tip his hand about his discovery of the power of loopholes in phrasings.  Not when Fairbanks could have easily corrected his oversight a moment later.  _Does that make me complicit?_

“That’s the point, _Carus_.  You never _need_ be hungry again.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced that was any better, but his dick was showing interest as his own hand slipped slowly up and down its length.  Bucky’s libido had been on a hair trigger since this whole fucking thing had started,  and that seemed to have only gotten worse since the conclusion of his changes, despite the presence of an unwelcome audience.  

 “Plus, I can make certain that you enjoy this.  How long has it been since someone has touched you with affection?”  Fairbanks set his hand in the intimate spot between his neck and shoulder, thumb softly stroking his collarbone. 

Bucky inhaled; he’d almost forgotten the feel of a gentle caress during an intimate moment.  The bath towel fell open, revealing his cock as it thickened, warming in his touch as he continued to stroke himself.  Flutters of arousal echoed in a flush to his cheeks and a curl of his toes in the thick carpet.  Yet, unlike the inhuman, clawing need that came with starvation, this felt natural, even if he had been compelled to do this.  If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that this was something he wanted to be doing.  That he was alone back in his bedroom in Brooklyn.  That those were Steve’s hands on his shoulders…. 

But Fairbanks wouldn’t shut up and let his mind escape the present.  “You do not need to feel shame around me, _Carus_.  You are truly exquisite to behold.”  Fairbanks’s hand trailed reverently down his back, kneading fingers worshipping the thorny spines protruding from Bucky’s vertebrae.  He hated how his back arched towards Fairbanks’s fingers, starving for a kind touch.  When the hand reached the base of his tail, shivers prickled Bucky’s skin with gooseflesh and Bucky’s cock jumped, the ridges raising along the underside.  Bucky bit his lip, stifling a moan as his fingers brushed along the sensitive nubs – each one a cluster of nerves just as sensitive as the head of his cock.  
  
_He wants me to feel good. He’s fucking trying to_ seduce _me._ The thought should have been ridiculous.  But after months of the closest thing he got to affection was the guards dispensing beatings or fuckings with equal cruelty or Lukin rubbing his nose in his own shame, Bucky couldn’t completely close off.   He’d seen starving men during the war greedily choke down spoiled meat, knowing it would make them sick, yet unable to help themselves. 

“You are a perfect creature.  You are strong, fast, and truly formidable, but you are also able to experience levels of pleasure of which most men can only dream.”  Fairbanks’s fingers focused on the bony bumps of his lower spine and root of his tail: the spots that made his tail coil and his cock start to drool.  And _God_ , that felt surreal – being touched not only somewhere most people avoided touching, but a place he often forgot himself even existed.  Each trailing finger sent shivers up his spine.

 _He’s testing me, too: learning my body –_ Bucky whimpered, his fingers dancing along his shaft, now slicked with his own precome, _but he’s doing it for my pleasure – for my benefit._

“You were made for this.” There was no scorn in Fairbanks’s words, only awe.   
  
Bucky winced, but couldn’t stop his fingers from continuing to stroke himself to full attention.  “You made me like this,” Bucky protested weakly.

“You’re right, we did.  But it was _you_.  They went through hundreds… and here you are, more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.”  Fairbanks brought Bucky’s tail to his lips, pressing a moist kiss to the soft skin.  

Bucky went momentarily rigid.  The dissonance between the creepiness of Fairbanks’s fawning and his own building arousal was jarring.  

“You’ve grown quiet.  Do you want me to stop?”  Fairbanks said, his tongue running surprisingly deftly down the length of his tail.

Bucky flinched as if he’d been hit, but shook his head.  _Why fight it?  Why mire yourself in guilt.  Fairbanks is right about one thing – I’m going to have to feed sooner or later._ Maybe he could just switch his mind off for a little bit.  It wasn’t giving up – it wasn’t giving in.  It was just finding that rare spot of solace when he could.  __  
  
Fairbanks pressed a smile against the nape of his neck.  “Good.  I am glad that you are not completely beyond listening to reason.  So long as you behave and you work _with_ me, you never have to be subject to the guards’ malice again.”  

Even if he could defy Fairbanks’s orders and stop, it would have been hard to cut himself off now.  His cock had become a thing alive in his hand, twitching and responding to each touch with enthusiasm.  He _wanted_ to come.  It was then, as sweat beaded over his forehead and his grip on his massive cock grew tighter that Fairbanks brought his lips to Bucky’s ear.  “Prove your worth, and together we could save lives and shape Hydra’s trajectory and the future of this world.  You could have genuine power in this organization.”  He couldn’t disentangle Fairbanks’s poisoned-honey promises from the pleasure building in his system.  Fucker probably knew it, too.  

Arousal wafted off of Fairbanks like a perfume, and Bucky’s body responded to it.  Humid heat collected between his thighs and where he ground back and forth against the silken sheets, slippery moisture streaked the mauve.  Even when he wasn’t starving for it, the _sense_ of Fairbanks’s lust stirred something primal in him.  

 “I’m not saying that you have to start yelling ‘Hail Hydra’ tomorrow.  For tonight, just enjoy this.  Let me show you what you can have.”  His words slipped into Bucky’s ears like a serpent.   “I want tonight to be about _you_ , _Carus_.  Your pleasure.  Tell me the truth now, what is it that you ache for?  – that is your command.” 

He didn’t want it – he didn’t!  “I-inside me, please.  I want to come,” Bucky’s voice betrayed him. 

“Ask and you shall receive, my _Carus_.”  Fairbanks drew back, accompanied by the rustle of fabric.   

God, this was really about to happen.  _Don’t think about it._ Fairbanks must have noticed the tightness in his shoulders as Bucky turned his head away.  

“There is no need to be shy.  Here, lay back-” Fairbanks stood, now bereft of his pants, his own modest erection bobbing unabashedly in front of him.   He didn’t resist as Fairbanks pressed back on his shoulders, guiding him down until Bucky was laying across the mattress, feet hanging over the edge of the bed.   Fairbanks slipped his hands between his knees, spreading them wide.  Bucky took a breath, squirming a little under Fairbanks’s appraising eyes, feeling every bit like a pinup dame on display.  “I may no longer have my youth, but you may find that experience should not be taken for granted.  Besides, with your natural aphrodisiacs, I am more than up for the task of satisfying your desires.”    

Confusion and regret bubbled through him.  The pretense of familiarity- this parody of intimacy was making Bucky’s stomach churn.  Bucky tensed in anticipation, but his desire didn’t flag.  Instead, as he watched Fairbanks give himself a few tugs, need pooled in his belly.  Couldn’t they just get it over with?  

But instead, Fairbanks wrapped a hand around Bucky’s cock.  “What a prize you have here.  Some day, I dare say, you will thank us for this.”  

“Not fucking likely,” Bucky muttered, but his words were cut off as Fairbanks gave it a squeeze.  Deft fingers trailed up the line of ridges along the raphe, and Bucky felt like a piano that had just had a finger swept up his keys- his whole body reverberated with the strum.  

When he was still shaking from the sensation, Fairbanks worked a finger, then two, inside him.  He was already loose and dripping, and was soon squirming under the attention.  True to his word, Fairbanks seemed to know precisely how to curve and hook his fingers with each pass to have Bucky gasping and shaking.  His balls tightened and drew up.  He was close.  

Fairbanks seemed to notice.  “I suppose I shan’t keep you waiting, although I daresay you could probably keep going.”  
  
“Please-!” Bucky managed.  He didn’t want to draw this out any longer than it needed to be.  

Luckily, that was apparently what Fairbanks wanted to hear.  His eyes darkened as he ran a hand up Bucky’s thigh, wetting his lips.    “Ah, so eager for me, my demon.”  Bucky could all but see the fantasy playing out behind those eyes.  This was what the sick bastard was probably gunning for from the start.  He almost regretted playing into it, but it got the reaction he needed: Fairbanks looked fit to burst.   

Fairbanks’s cockhead took the place of his fingers, and Bucky’s body greedily drew it in, shivering around him.  Experience didn’t prepare the older man for the sensation that awaited him.  He gasped, eyes going wide as he sunk in.  “Dear lord, you are perfect!” his voice warbled into a guttural, animal moan.  

Then, at last, buried balls-deep in him, Fairbanks shut up.  Bucky could finally close his eyes and reel in the sensations, his thoughts turning to static.  He wet his lips, moaning, tension melting into the soft bedsheets as still-slick fingers pinched and twisted his nipple with sharp pleasure.  Another hand gripped his hardened shoulder for support, shaking fingers grappling for purchase against the steely carapace.  

Every time Fairbanks drew back, he expertly grazed the spot inside him that made his toes curl on the push back inside.  Bucky tossed his head, his hair spilling against the sheets, and let his body move and writhe as he savored every twitch and pulse of the cock inside of him.  When he relaxed and let himself _feel_ , he could sense each twinge of arousal within him and tell how close his partner was to orgasm.   A building static charge buzzed inside him like a hive of bees as Fairbanks picked up the pace.  The dam was giving way, the first few trickles of sweet water promising the deluge to come.  

Then it hit - Bucky’s body went rigid as the force of the orgasm flooded into him, energy surging into his chest and spreading throughout his body from the roots of his hair and the tips of his fingers.  Bucky let it fill him like a campfire filling a cave with its warm glow.  More and more he pulled, drawing out everything Fairbanks had to give until both of them collapsed onto the mattress to the repetitive hiss of the record spinning at its end.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about consent:  what is depicted in this chapter is absolutely still rape – Bucky may be having trouble seeing it that way (or admitting that to himself) but being given a modicum of choice between two bad options  (given the illusion of choice) is still absolutely sexual abuse.  
> 
> Thanks to [ Defiler_Wyrm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/pseuds/Defiler_Wyrm) for extra help beta’ing this chapter, Kamiki with extra help with some of the dialog and scenarios, + Syralscreams for the continued awesome feedback they send on the posted chapters!
> 
> \- ALSO – go check out chapter one of Dragging you Down!!  It now has cover art thanks to the always amazing [hopeless--geek](http://hopeless--geek.tumblr.com/)!!  
>  [ (You can also check it out directly here ]](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/163770324843/hopelessgeek-in-a-divergence-from-the)  
>   
> 
> ALSO huge shout-out of thanks to [Shaish](http://shaish.tumblr.com/) / [shaishart](http://shaishart.tumblr.com/) for both some awesome commentary-ing AND this fantastic giftart!!!
> 
>   
>  [ REBLOG IT HERE ON TUMBLR!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/163962993828/shaishart-succubus-bucky)  
>    
>   


	15. Chapter 15

The aroma of cooked eggs, coffee and fresh ham dragged Bucky in to consciousness like a fish on a hook, yanking him out of the depths of sleep by way of his stomach.  The dream that had engulfed him like the sea sloughed off of him as he was reeled in, leaving only nebulous flits of disjointed memories rapidly disappearing into the ether. _Shackles around his wrists, hammering heart, and fear gripping him like a hand around his neck.  Trying to scream, but his voice forming a breathy moan of ‘more’ instead._

Bucky shivered, sat up and rubbed at his eyes, eager to dispel the last remnants of the nightmare, only to open his eyes to face another.  Memories of the night before swam in to replace the fading dream as he found himself naked in Fairbanks’s lavish bedroom.  He couldn’t even close his eyes to rid himself of reminders of what he’d done; Fairbanks’s scent clung to him as if the man were still in the room.  It was in his hair, in the sheets that tangled around his legs, and sweat into the mattress.  

The source of the aroma that woke him materialized a moment later when Fairbanks strode into the room with his ever-present satchel over a shoulder and carrying a tray heaped with breakfast.  Apparently, it was too much to hope for that milking him for all he was worth the night before would have given the older man a heart attack.  Then again, the prospect of being left here alone with Lukin was enough to ruin Bucky’s emerging appetite.  

“Is it morning already?” Bucky mumbled with sandpaper in his throat.  Not only did Fairbanks somehow wake up first, but he also managed to leave the room without rousing him.  He must have been more exhausted, even after the snooze in the bathtub, than he had realized.  

“You will find that with age, sleep is never a lengthy visitor.”  Fairbanks shook his head with a chuckle, “What am I saying?  Perhaps you won’t need to learn that, after all.  Not anymore.”  

And wasn’t that thought a jarring wakeup? – miles worse than his sister’s bony knees bouncing on his chest to wake him for church after a night of hard drinking or cold water to the face as an announcement that he overslept on a watch – an extended lifetime of _this_?  

“Oh now, why the sullen face?”  Fairbanks seemed in high fucking spirits this morning.

_And why shouldn’t he be?_    _He got to play out what was probably a lifelong fetish of his last night: sex with a real demon._ Bucky shuddered, drawing the blanket up over his lap and tail, keeping his inhuman features out of his own line of sight as best he could.  “Bad dreams,” Bucky grunted out, wondering why he even bothered lying.  His stomach rumbled as if to answer. 

Fairbanks closed the distance, taking a seat uncomfortably close beside Bucky as he sat the tray across their laps.  He removed the covers from the plates and poured two cups of coffee from the carafe.  Steam curled into his nose with the rich, inviting smell of toasted coffee beans that made his heart ache.  How long had it been since he’d had a damn cup of coffee, let alone the thrice-boiled sludge that they got during the war?  “Come now, cheer up – I have a reward for you.  To start with, I figured we’d share a nice breakfast.” 

Bucky’s eyes bounced between the warm bed and the breakfast on his lap.  Reward, huh?  It certainly felt like fucking _payment_.  Even though Bucky had never actually agreed to anything, Fairbanks sure as hell was acting like he did.  And in a way, didn’t he?  He hadn’t been hungry.  He never tried to find a damn loophole in Fairbanks’s orders; he never even said no.  He just went along with it all.  Why?  Because it was easier than spending another night in his frozen cell?  Because he was scared that Lukin was going to do something even worse to him if he didn’t?  Because it was easier than being alone?    
  
Bucky’s face folded in on itself as he hunched over the warm cup of coffee clutched between mismatched hands.  

_But it did feel good._   Complicit or not, it had been better than any of the times with the guards or Lukin.  Arguably even better than the quick-and-dirty blowjobs in back alleys he’d given during the war.  He had to feed, and he was stuck here.   It only made sense to pick his battles carefully.  

_But… if that’s the case, then why the hell do I feel more like a prostitute now than ever before?_

Fairbanks glanced over at Bucky’s frozen contemplation.  “I’m sorry – were you waiting for me?”  The smile that crossed his face was laced with more delight than Bucky was comfortable with.  “I should have said something sooner:  please, eat; take your time.  Afterwards I have a special gift for you.”

“This wasn’t the reward?”  Wariness soured the taste of fried egg.    
  
Casually, Fairbanks reached a hand up to brush a lock of hair out of Bucky’s face, tucking it fondly behind his ear.  His fingers lingered along their long points just long enough to be creepy before returning to his utensils.  For all of Fairbanks’s bluster about how powerful he’d become when they turned him into this _monster,_ he felt more like a declawed cat: pissy but useless and treated like a damn exotic house pet.  His tail tip twitched irritably under the sheets, completing the picture.  “Oh my dear _Carus,_ no!  Today there is a real treat in store for you.”   
  
“What, are you going to rape me again?” Bucky muttered darkly around a mouthful of salty ham.  

Fairbanks’s fork clattered onto the tray. “ _What_?”  Fairbanks looked like Bucky had hit him.  _Good_.  “You shouldn’t throw a term like that around so casually!  What happened last night was _hardly_ rape.  The question of whether a succubus can even be raped aside, last night was about seeing to _your_ desires – or did that nightmare of yours get things turned about in your memory?”

Bucky stared incredulously back at Fairbanks.  “My desires?” he echoed, flabbergasted.  “You think I _want_ to be here?  You think I want to sleep with _anyone_ here?!”

Fairbank’s back went straight as a board, his face twisting into a rictus grin.  “Is it force-feeding when I provide you food if you are not starving?” Fairbanks gestured pointedly to the nearly empty plate in front of Bucky.  “Perhaps it is not your favorite food, but you need to eat, and you can enjoy it nonetheless.  How is that any different?”  Fairbanks’s voice struggled to keep an even tone, “You need to take a step back and look at your new existence in a different light.  You only feel shame because you were conditioned to do so.”

Doubt nibbled at Bucky’s anger.  “I-”  His words faltered, Fairbanks’s words untangling what moments ago felt like a justified ball of rage.  

Fairbanks rose to his feet, “I don’t even know if I should still reward you after that nonsense.” He turned, looking down at Bucky with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face.  “Are you trying to make me feel guilty for helping you, _Carus?_   Perhaps Lukin is correct and I have been too soft on you.  Tell me honestly, would you prefer to work with him instead?”  
  
Bucky curled over his tray.  He shouldn’t have said anything.  Was it worth squandering the little bit of leverage he might have earned by keeping his damn mouth shut last night only to blow it this morning?  _Maybe Fairbanks is right: this is the best I can expect given the circumstances.  Whatever happened to biding my time and looking for opportunities?  Pissing him off is only shooting myself in the damn foot._ “No-” Bucky interjected quickly, resolve crumbling.  “I… fuck, I’m sorry.”  _God, what a pathetic excuse for a soldier – for a fucking human being – I’ve become.  Steve would have been so ashamed of me._

Fairbanks’s shoulders relaxed, his face smoothing once more into a fatherly smile.  “There, now.  That’s more like it,” Fairbanks reached out, carding his hands through Bucky’s hair.  Something tense in Bucky’s gut reflexively uncoiled at the reassuring touch.  “It is only natural, I suppose, to hold onto some lingering fear after such a dramatic change in circumstances.  But if you can just learn to let go, to trust that I have your best interests at heart, then you will find yourself much happier.”  

Bucky huffed in annoyance, but didn’t pull away from Fairbanks’s touch _.  Yeah right.  What I should actually learn is to keep my damn mouth shut.  All it’s ever done is get my ass in worse trouble._ Resolutely, Bucky piled the last of the ham and eggs on the remaining corner of toast before shoving it into his mouth.  That would at least keep his damn mouth from doing anything else stupid for a few moments. 

Seemingly mollified, Fairbanks withdrew the red book from his satchel.  “I think you will be quite interested in what I have to offer you today, _Carus_.  There is a technique described in here that allows a demon to take on a human guise.”

Bucky snapped to attention.  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” He spluttered around the mouthful of eggs not doing their job.  

Fairbanks gave a dismissive wave, “It wasn’t even a possibility before your transformation was complete.  There was no reason to get your hopes up prematurely.”  

This time, Bucky made himself take the time to swallow the remaining food in his mouth and chase it with the rich, still-warm coffee, letting his thoughts percolate before speaking.  _Prematurely?_   How fucking experimental was all of this?  It didn’t matter.  He could be human again?  That could change everything.  He moved the empty tray to the bedside table and wiped at his mouth.  “I’m listening.”  He tried to keep the excited quaver from his voice.  

“Before we get into the mechanics, you must first understand a few things:” Fairbanks pointed a finger in Bucky’s face, “a guise is merely a way for you to _pretend to be human_.  If you cannot accept that you are no longer human, then it will not work.”  Fairbanks flipped through a few pages of the book carefully, his eyes skimming over the text. “However, as I am sure you can surmise, it can still be very useful.”  
  
“I can turn back?” Bucky’s lungs tightened at this dizzying prospect of hope.  

“No.” Fairbanks looked sharply up from the book, fixing a gaze on Bucky like a beartrap.  “That line of thinking will only sabotage you.  You can never turn back.  This is merely a disguise, like the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Fairbanks’s hand moved to pat Bucky fondly on the cheek, “You will always be a wolf, but it is a way to keep from spooking the sheep.”

“Okay fine – how do I do it?” Bucky shook his head, trying not to dwell too much on Fairbanks’s analogy.  “Are there words or a ritual or something?”

Fairbanks shook his head, “No, it is more innate than that.”  He moved to the rug and sat down cross-legged, waving Bucky over to him.  

“The process is a sort of mental exercise or a new way of thinking: a little bit like meditation-” Fairbanks glanced over to Bucky as he took a seat across from him, trying to mimic Fairbanks’s position without sitting painfully on his tail.  “-although that comparison may be lost on you.”

Bucky responded with a flat look, settling into place with his tail draped over his lap.  

“Close your eyes.  I want you to find and _feel_ the energy within you.  It should be simpler since you have freshly fed.”  

Bucky complied, suppressing the snark that was typically quick to find his tongue with his eagerness to learn.  He’d felt the energy before, although never given it much thought.  It moved through an injury like warm honey to ease his pain and close the wound.  During his changes, it had pooled, building like a pressure before generating new flesh or bone in an orgasmic rush.  And now, with eyes closed and his attention turned inwards, he found… something: a prickle under his skin like static electricity that stirred sluggishly when Bucky sought it out.  

As Bucky’s breathing evened out, Fairbanks continued speaking, “Imagine this energy filling you up like a vessel.  It is everywhere in your body, sustaining you.  What you need to do is pull it inwards.  Contract this energy to your core and pull it from your demonic traits.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed as he concentrated harder.  Feeling it was one thing, but moving it and manipulating it?  His teeth worried at his lower lip as he imagined the energy flowing inwards: out of his horns, out of his wings and tail and arm.  He cracked an eye open and huffed in frustration.  Nothing.  

“It’s fine.  Try again; you can’t expect to succeed on something like this on your first go.” Fairbanks reassured him.  

_Yes I can,_ Bucky thought stubbornly.  _Come on, Buck – you can do this.  This is fucking important!  Don’t just think about it – DO IT!_ Instead of just imagining the energy moving by itself, he tensed his chest and _pulled_.  It felt like sucking a huge breath of air inwards before diving down beneath the waves.  His body tensed and prickled, and when he tentatively opened his eyes, Bucky gasped. 

“They’re gone-” Bucky breathed, gobsmacked.  “Holy shit – they’re _gone._ ”  He turned around, peering over his shoulder at the smooth expanse of back muscle, his spine ending right above his ass where it was supposed to.  In his elation, it took Bucky a full fifteen seconds to register that his left arm hadn’t merely reverted, it was _missing_.  “My arm!  FUCK!” Bucky scrabbled at the mess of scar tissue that was his left shoulder, still branded with the deep pentagram incision.  With a sizzle of color and the sensation of letting go of a held breath, the missing features rematerialized, startling a yelp out of Bucky.  

Fairbanks’s hands were on his shoulders in a flash, steadying him and anchoring his attention onto Fairbanks’s calm face.   “Easy, easy.  No need to panic.”  Bucky took a shaking breath, trying to still the quaver running through his body.  “I thought that might happen.  It is the same reason you are thicker than you once were, even guised.  You can hide extraneous traits, but you cannot turn them human.  You lost your human arm.  But, perhaps you can practice a selective guise: hide everything but your demonic arm and later we can use more mundane tools to cover it.”

Bucky swallowed thickly, nodding, though his heart still pounded in his chest.  _I can do this!_   

Fairbanks gave him an encouraging jostle before releasing him.  “Try again.  Take your time.  You know what to expect now, so try to focus on the rest of your features, but leave the energy in your arm.  You can use the mirror if you like.” Fairbanks nodded to a round mirror hung above a dresser on the far side of the room.  

Setting his jaw, Bucky strode up to the mirror with purpose, confronting his reflection like an enemy.  This time, he kept his eyes open.  Seizing on the energy ebbing through his features, deliberately releasing his grasp on the reservoir in his arm, he inhaled and drew it inwards.

The air rippled over his horns and ears, shimmering like a mirage on hot concrete before his inhuman features completely faded from sight.  A grin burst onto his face as he smiled triumphantly at the man in the mirror he hadn’t seen in months.  No fangs.  No horns.  No pointed ears.  There was _Bucky Fucking Barnes!_ The arm remained an obvious tell of his _otherness_ , but Bucky counted this as a success.  He fell back a few paces, bouncing experimentally on the balls of his feet.  He couldn’t see his wings or his tail, but his balance remained the same as after his changes and he had to relearn how to walk.  

A smattering of applause interrupted Bucky’s assessment.  “Congratulations, my boy!  Stunning.  You are a fast learner!”

Bucky let himself savor this moment of triumph, not allowing Fairbanks’s hungry smile run the moment.  However, after a few minutes, an antsy tension coiled through his body like a spring.   His wings and tail had gone numb and tingly as if they were asleep, and when he tried to shift or stretch them to alleviate the cramp, he couldn’t even twitch them.  They weren’t just invisible; they were immobile.  It was more uncomfortable, more binding, than his tail had felt during the war when he had literally strapped it to his leg; at least then, he could sometimes wriggle it subtly when no one was watching.

“What’s wrong?” Fairbanks stepped forward, concern written blatantly on his face. 

“It’s uncomfortable” Bucky said with a flinch.  “Like I sat on them too long or something.”

“Ah.  With practice, you should be able to hold it longer, but it will never feel natural.  ” Fairbanks hesitated, scrutinizing Bucky’s face.  “I know what you are thinking, but don’t get any ideas.  You must understand that this is not a magic cure.  You cannot hold a guise if you are unconscious, it will be a sap on your energy reserves, and the longer you maintain it the more unnatural it will feel.  Those who know you for long enough will also come to realize there is something _askew._ ” 

Bucky’s eyes darted to the side.  Of course Fairbanks knew he’d think about trying to go home.  “How does it work?” Bucky abruptly changed the subject.  

Fairbank turned Bucky to face the mirror.  “This is an illusion.  It ought to fool cameras and those who might brush against a guised feature should not register what they have done, but you must be careful with it.”  Fairbanks moved a hand to the top of Bucky’s head, where he _knew_ his horns were hidden from view.   Bucky watched as Fairbanks’s fingers manage to barely miss where his horns should be.  

It felt _wrong_ – as if feedback from a microphone were a sensation instead of noise.  Gooseflesh raised along Bucky’s neck and he grit his teeth; it took all of his concentration to keep the energy from rushing back to his horns.  “Ugh, knock it off- that feels weird.” 

“Fascinating,” Fairbanks breathed, then shook his head as if to clear it. “But your horns are still there.  Here-” he took his hat from where it rested on the corner of the dresser and handed it to Bucky, who accepted it with a questioning blink. “Try to put it on.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow skeptically and turned back to the mirror.  However, the moment he tried to pretend that there was nothing there and moved to set the hat down over his brow, the bubble burst.  “Dammit!” Bucky swore, glaring balefully at his reflection where the hat now perched ridiculously atop his very real horns. 

Fairbanks clucked his tongue, “Tsk, you see.  You must never try and deceive yourself about your true nature.  Your horns are still there, even if you cannot see them.  Unless you poke holes in them, I’m afraid you cannot wear hats.”  Fairbanks snatched his fedora back with a grin. “But don’t get any ideas.” He winked, as if he were his fucking friend.  

Bucky sighed, running his claws through his hair, their tips actually feeling kind of soothing against his scalp.  _So close, and yet still so far._

“I also wouldn’t recommend trying to use your claws on anything while they’re guised. Shattering the illusion will, well, shatter the illusion.” Fairbanks clapped him on the shoulder, abruptly dropping out of ‘teaching mode’.  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.  It probably feels like a fine line to tread, but I will give you the opportunity to practice.”

Bucky turned his head to Fairbanks with a questioning look.  “Practice?”

“Of course!” Fairbanks laughed.  “I’m proud of you, _Carus_.  You have come a long way since I first arrived here.”  

Bucky would have preferred Fairbanks to have hit him than fucking say something like that, but if Fairbanks noticed his bitter expression he gave no indication. 

“I have some matters to attend to, so I will leave you to work on this.  Your orders are as follows: you are to remain in this room save for an allotted hour you can spend in the restroom you were in last night, broken up however you like.  One trip, seven, or anything in between: it makes no difference to me.  You may only travel to and from the restroom: no detours.  Continue to practice your guise while I am gone, and do not damage or break anything in here.  I must also order you to never touch or read the red book with the black pentagram on the cover.  It does not belong to you, after all.  The rest of your standing orders, of course, apply.  That is all for now.”

That was it?  The orders were pretty specific, but not _bad_.  Time alone in a warm room with real furnishings?  “Alright…” Bucky worked his jaw, stamping down his optimism and waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

Fairbanks nodded, seeming satisfied.  “I’ll be back later. In the meantime, I’ll send for a palette to be made up for you.  How do you like that – you can share this room with me?”

Bucky could virtually hear the thud of a shoe falling.  “Great.” Bucky forced out between clenched teeth.  Apparently the guise wasn’t the only mask that Bucky was practicing today.  It took even more of his mettle to summon a begrudging complacency.    

“Splendid,” Fairbanks beamed at him, tucking the book back into his satchel and turning to leave.  Bucky had to wonder what else Fairbanks was still keeping secreted away from him in that book.  “Keep up the good work and we’ll see what else we can teach you.”

The door closed with a whisper, and Bucky blinked.  He was alone.  He’d made it through the night, and had been given a fucking valuable weapon in his arsenal.  Bucky turned his attention determinedly towards the guise rather than miring on the implications of having a mat on the floor in Fairbanks’s room like a fucking dog.  

As the day progressed, holding the guise grew easier.  With practice, he could turn it on in a moment – like faking a smile.  But just like forcing a smile to stay plastered on his face when he wasn’t really happy, after a while it started to ache.  Even worse, it began to feel hollow and made him all the more acutely aware of what really lay underneath.  When he looked in the mirror after working on the guise all day, it looked _phony_.  He couldn’t say how, not any more than he could say how he _knew_ the difference between a Nathan’s hot dog and anyone else’s even blindfolded.  There was nothing he could put his finger on, but he could just tell there was something _off_.  

When he finally dropped the guise after having kept it up for hours, he fucking deserved a reward.  Bucky stretched out his cramping tail and wings with a huge sigh of relief and padding over to kneel reverently before Fairbanks’s record player.  Tentatively, he thumbed through the small collection of vinyls stored beneath it.  Classical record after classical record after… his hand hesitated and his heart ached as he slipped out a Glenn Miller record and sat it on the turn table.  Velvet tones and brassy horns soon filled the room, transporting him to a better time of smoky dance halls, twirling skirts and flying shoes.

Bucky rose to his feet, shuffling around the carpet in a slow waltz and slid his eyes closed.  Feeling for the energy collected in his features, he drew it in, completing the façade of being just a guy dancing to his favorite tunes.  Maybe he was short an arm, but he was home from the war and in his favorite dance club, surrounded by smiling faces and a future with potential.  Even if it was only for a short time, he could at least pretend.  Hydra couldn’t steal that from him.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you AGAIN to [Shaish ](http://shaish.tumblr.com/)for two new fantastic pieces of giftart of Demon-Bucky! :0   
>  You spoil us so much and these are some stunningly gorgeous pieces!
> 
>   
>    
>    
>  [ Reblog it on Tumblr here!](http://shaishart.tumblr.com/post/163998494144/really-wanted-to-do-his-black-eyes-succubus-bucky)
> 
>   
>  [ Reblog it on Tumblr here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/164179587038/shaishart-manic-laughter-im-finally-done)


	16. Chapter 16

  
Bucky didn’t fight the training.  However, the instruction Bucky received did not come in the form of more arcane secrets from The Book: _that_ had been kept secreted close to Fairbanks’s chest.  No, instead he had been turned over to Lukin for drills that made boot camp look like a damn vacation.  

As desperate as he had been to escape the maddening, endless dredge of the imprisonment in his cell early in his capture, the relentless cycle of brutal training all day, and only a few hours of sleep each night on Fairbanks’s floor (or bed) was considerably worse.  There was no predicting what challenge or instruction or thinly disguised torture-as-endurance training they would put him through until he had reported for duty every morning by 5am.  If he was lucky and he performed well, Fairbanks fed him real food for dinner, sometimes even granting him a bath if he managed to particularly impress him.  Unfortunately, those nights also tended to leave Fairbanks feeling amorous.  

At least Fairbanks had kept his promise about one thing: Lukin and the guards wouldn’t fuck him.  Instead, if he got hurt, he had to push through.  Lukin had learned that he had the capacity to “hold it” for at least a few hours even if his wounds stopped healing, even if the arousal began to wind through him like a cat in heat.  Some evenings, he practically begged Fairbanks to relieve his hard on and heal his wounds.  He stopped feeling like shit for deliberately ramping up his pheromones and demanding what he needed from a man he’d have rather strangled than fuck.  Fairbanks liked it even more when he begged.  

He was surviving, not that he had a choice in the matter.  Fairbanks had implemented an additional set of standing orders that had hamstrung him as much as the glyphed manacles.  He was to follow Lukin’s orders so long as they did not contradict his own.  Any locked door in the facility was off-limits.  He was not permitted outside a five mile radius of the compound, and he was never to attempt to contact anyone outside the base.  

The new orders had given him a longer leash, but a leash all the same.  Sometimes the illusion of freedom, being able to walk the halls or go outside, paradoxically made him feel worse.  It made him feel like one of _them_.  Bucky began to welcome the times when guards passed him in the hallways and gave him a wide berth with an unnerved stare.  It was a fucking reminder that he was different, that he didn’t belong here.  Sometimes he even let his guise flicker away to give the skittish ones a start– like picking at a scab to feel pain and remember he was still alive. 

He told himself - through cattle prods correcting minor errors, twenty hour days, and dragging a T-54 tank through heavy snowdrifts, all the while holding his guise - that he could turn the skills Lukin forced on him against Hydra when the opportunity presented itself.  Somehow.  Eventually…

The months slipped through his fingers like sand.  

Summer in Siberia spelled long days, downright pleasant temperatures, and even harder training.  

Some days, he faced opponent after opponent in brutal hand-to-hand sparring sessions during which (and only during which) his standing orders were lifted enough to let him fight, but not leave any permanent damage or scars.  His opponents faced no such limitations, often ganging up on him, armed with brass knuckles, clubs, cattle prods, or occasionally knives.  Those days, pain aside (pain was to be expected with any of the training), Bucky damn near enjoyed himself.  He could actively turn his rage against the Hydra soldiers and did everything he could to stretch the limits of his orders.  Broken bones, after all, weren’t permanent.  He expected to be disciplined for it.  Instead, Lukin smiled like a shark as he saw the fury fueling Bucky’s attacks like the demon he was.  

Other days Fairbanks and Lukin ran him through weapon drills – assembling, firing, and disassembling weapons he had never even seen half the time, all the while learning to maintain manual dexterity with his clawed fingers.  Despite his handicaps, they demanded faster times than should have been rational, only to cut down his goal time when he managed to succeed.  They familiarized him with a range of weaponry from _Mosin–Nagant_ rifles, to the burly deceptively-named _Dushka_ machine gun, to the tiny TT; NR-40 knives to the truck-mounted _Katyusha_.  More so than even during the war, Bucky took to the training like a duck to water, revealing an enhanced learning speed building off of a natural proficiency… and the looming threat of electrocution when he didn’t meet Lukin’s rigorous standards.

Most days weren’t that simple.

Last month they’d fed him something that had gone straight to his dick.  It wasn’t a heat, not technically, but all week he had to muster through a distractingly pressing hard on all the while made to maintain his guise and work through a progressively difficult target practice.  Worse still was how his contagious arousal affected the other men; he could _sense_ when the soldiers around him were squirming and adjusting their own cocks.  Bucky had been a few inches off target with a sniper rifle at a distance of nearly a mile under strong winds.  Lukin had used it as an excuse to redirect his training towards maintaining his guise through “distraction”.  That translated to hours of creative torture, resetting a timer any time the guise fizzled out.  By the end of it, Bucky had barely dragged himself - unable to summon any spare energy any longer to hold his guise – to Fairbanks’s feet to feed.  

Two weeks ago they’d worked him through the most grueling obstacle course yet: a two mile gauntlet through the scraggly hills that added decommissioned tanks and jagged, rusted steel girders to the standard faire of rope bridges, barbed wire and sheer walls to scale.  As he maneuvered around the course that had beaten their top soldiers (who didn’t have the added handicap of an assault of live weapon fire and smoke grenades.) Bucky damn sure learned how to use the scraggly, rocky environment to his advantage.  He learned on the fly that he could rend pieces of the steel girders to block rifle fire, discovered just how acute his reaction speed could be to allow him to deflect rounds with his plated arm, and even the angle to catch a shot on the back to make sure it just hit hard scale rather than vulnerable flesh.  He utilized their stealth training to slip past the sentries’ watch and the hand-to-hand training to disable the riflemen.  The whole thing would have been a hell of a lot less frustrating had he been permitted to use his wings… or not have had to pull his punches against the soldiers.  Lukin assured him that it would be easier when he was under no such limitations in the field.  The thought made Bucky’s blood run cold.  

*

Three quarters of the way through what had so far been a normal day, Bucky felt the summons.  By all accounts, he should have been relieved for the excuse to abandon the miserable training of breaking out of increasingly durable shackles after being tossed into the icy runoff streams, but there was only one explanation for being recalled before the end of a day of training: Fairbanks was in the mood.  Over the past few months, Fairbanks had gradually dropped the pretenses that their ‘special time together’ (as Fairbanks liked to call it) was for Bucky’s benefit, but that hadn’t slowed the man’s amorous advances.  Bucky’s body had also apparently learned what to expect: his cock was already involuntarily flushing with blood, stiffening in the BDU pants that he had spent the first month of his training ‘earning.’  Lukin wasn’t the only one conditioning him.  

As he started heading back into the facility, he caught sight of Lukin lowering a radio transceiver and leveling a glower in his direction that flayed the flesh from his bones.  At least Fairbanks had the fucking courtesy to tell Lukin what was going on this time around, not that he anticipated it to make any difference the next time Lukin saw him.  Whenever Fairbanks recalled him before Lukin was finished with him for the day, the general made sure to be particularly brutal the next day, as if he were making up for the lost time.   
  
When Bucky opened the door to their now-shared quarters, Fairbanks took one look at the pressing hard on in Bucky’s pants and a smile like the cat that ate the canary spread across his face.   Bucky knew better by this point than to contradict him when he’d purred, “You must enjoy these visits – it took you long enough, but it warms me that you look forward to my company as I as much as I do yours, _Carus_.”  

Bucky wanted to scream and scour off Fairbanks’s words with steel wool.  He wanted to get in his face and shout that he wasn’t fucking _excited_ about this, that Fairbanks didn’t fucking turn him on but his body had just figured out how to put two and two together to prepare for the inevitable.  But what would be the point?  More punishment?  A revoking of his hard-earned privileges of clothing, occasional baths or hot dinners?  _Besides, it’s still better than gangbangs, right?_

Pride was a bitter, jagged pill to swallow.

So instead, Bucky just shrugged out of his gear and kept his words to himself.  As soon as he’d stripped and turned to face his handler with his jaw set in resignation, Fairbanks ordered him to drop his guise, adding another layer of disgust to Bucky’s growing coat of self-loathing.  

Fairbanks proved to be in a handsy mood that night: pawing at his horns, grabbing his tail, and ordering him to spread his wings as he bent him over the mattress.   
  
Bucky squeezed his eyes closed, ignoring slimy kisses peppering his back and sent his mind to salty air, warm sun on fire escapes, and the tinny sound of Benny Goodman on the radio.  

*  
Bucky rolled out of bed automatically at the first tone of the alarm clock – gnarled hand slapping the switch on top just hard enough to silence it.  If he was lucky, he caught it quickly enough Fairbanks would continue to sleep and not get _clingy_ like he sometimes did in the mornings.  He must have known that Lukin despised him being late to report for duty in the mornings, but Bucky’s protests never discouraged Fairbanks, only irritated him enough to try to remind Bucky that _he_ was in charge of him first and foremost.  That never stopped Lukin from taking his tardiness out on him by means of the lash of a whip or shock of a stun-baton.

Slipping his eyes closed, Bucky drew in his features. Putting up his guise had become second-nature to him, but every morning he woke in his true form; all the discipline in the world couldn’t train him to stay guised in his sleep.  He usually clung to the illusion like a security blanket from the moment he woke up till he couldn’t hold it any longer (or Fairbanks ordered him to drop it – which he often did when he demanded his company).  Like last night… 

Bucky shuddered as the events exploded into his mind like fireworks before banishing the memory to an increasingly crowded corner of his mind.  He retrieved his pants from where they’d been left discarded on the floor a few steps into the room and shoved on a pair of tall Soviet jackboots that had been sized just a little large in the toes to allow room for his claws.  Even with his features guised, he still had to accommodate for them.  It had taken him _three_ months of training before they’d granted him those boots; three months of frequent drills in thick snow or uneven, rocky ground.  Bucky had learned the hard way that frost bite couldn’t actually destroy his toes, though it sure as hell felt like it could.  

Bucky glanced over at the clock to see how much time he had to use the restroom.  He nearly swallowed his tongue: the clock read 7:30am.   
  
_"FUCK_!”  Panic choked him, pinching off the word.  How the hell had that happened?  Every morning, it woke him at 4:30.  Lukin was going to flay him alive!

A too-casual chuckle whipped his attention back to the bed where Fairbanks was propping himself up.  “Oh, by the way _Carus_ , there was a change of plans today,” he commented offhandedly as he slowly sat up and reached for a glass of water.  “I’ll be accompanying you to your training this morning.”  

Bucky blinked.  “Yes, sir.” _That would have been really fucking nice to know before now_.   
  
Bucky’s nerves jangled as he watched Fairbanks get dressed aggravatingly slowly.    Still, he’d actually wound up getting a full night’s sleep.  How many months had it been since he’d been allowed to rest for more than four hours?  There was a change in the air.

Maybe this was a good thing.  Could it be a reward?  For the past two weeks, Lukin had been gradually ramping up the difficulty of his tasks. The general was a hard man to read, but Bucky suspected he had been outperforming his expectations, at least judging by the fact that his “corrections” (aka punishments) had been few and far between.  

Bucky allowed himself to cross his fingers for a flight lesson.  After all, that could be a reason for Fairbanks to accompany him this morning: he’d need to modify his standing orders to let him roam further than the five mile limit.  Besides, it had been over a month since the last time he’d been allowed to stretch his wings – and those rare days were the only times that Bucky felt something resembling a peace of mind.  Granted, last time they’d let him fly, they’d tested his capabilities with increasingly heavy loads, but Bucky would still rather do that than any of the other fucking drills.  Bucky’s wings lifted him above and away from the compound, allowing him to be, for a time, truly alone.  It was only when flying that he embraced what he had become – for all his shame, it was hard to hate something that had given him _that_.   
  
“Follow me, _Carus_ :  that is an order.”  Bucky’s daydream burst as he fell dutifully into step behind Fairbanks.  At least he didn’t try to fill the silence with uncomfortable conversation this time as they traveled up the familiar route to the ground floor and the training area outside.

Disconcertingly, the scene that waited for him just outside the bay doors of the compound was anything but routine.  

Lukin stood with a circle of soldiers around a man kneeling on the ground, his arms bound behind his back.  Despite the gag obscuring much of the man’s facial features, Bucky would have put money on never having seen the man’s face around the compound before.  The poor bastard’s eyes darted over to him and Fairbanks, widening as they fell on Bucky’s twisted arm.   Incensed, he struggled against the handcuffs, screaming muffled expletives into the gag.  His outburst only managed to earn him a kick to the back from Oleg, sending him sprawling face-first onto the gravel driveway. 

Even in the crisp morning air, sweat beaded along Bucky’s brow.  This wasn’t a flight lesson, this was a test.  

<"Finally,”> Lukin growled, turning his ire towards the nearest soldier to Bucky.  <“Sokolov - hand the demon your rifle.">

A _Mosin-Nagant_ .30 caliber was pressed into Bucky’s numb hands.  

Fairbanks cleared his throat and drew Bucky’s eyes.  “ _Carus_ , I am adjusting your standing orders that forbid you from hurting anyone: from this point forward, instead, you may not hurt yourself or any other member of Hydra unless otherwise ordered.  The man on the ground before you is no member of Hydra.”  Fairbanks’s eyes crinkled around the edges in a proud smile. 

Bucky swallowed thickly as Lukin approached, standing uncomfortably close to his other side, effectively penning him in between him and Fairbanks.  His hands shook.  He didn’t know the guy in front of him from Adam; he’d never seen him before around the facility, and if Hydra wanted him dead, then Bucky sure as hell didn’t.  The prisoner looked up, bloodshot hazel eyes fierce beneath a sharply drawn brow.  “Who is he?” Bucky heard himself ask, mentally kicking himself as soon as he had.  
_  
_ “That is none of your concern, demon!” Lukin snapped in English, gripping him hard by the back of the neck.  “Your job is to follow orders, not question them.  Now!” he barked.  “Kill the prisoner – that is an order!”

The reaction was automatic: his hands cocked the rifle, aimed, and fired within the space of a breath.  The man fell lifeless to the ground with a hole in his head set perfectly between the eyes: the fastest, cleanest kill Bucky could manage.  

The gun fell from his hands with a clatter.  _What have I done?!_

Bucky felt something deep within crack.  A corpse lay at his feet that had once been a man: a potential ally and enemy of Hydra.  He’d never harbored any illusions about what Hydra’s intentions were for him, but that had always been a distant, grainy future.  After their training was done.  After he’d broken.   _And haven’t I?_   His stomach felt like he’d swallowed a pile of rocks.  

“You have done well, _Carus_ ,” Fairbanks crooned, his hand coming to rest at the small of his back.  

“He is ready,” Lukin clipped stoically.  “Prep him.”


	17. Chapter 17

  
Bucky barely processed the march back into the facility.  As soon as Fairbanks had ordered him to follow, Bucky let his body go on autopilot.  His mind, however, was stuck on the hazel eyes that had fixed him with a terrified look just moments before he put a bullet between them.  Bucky had killed before – more men than he cared to count during the war - but that had been different.  That had been for a goddamn reason he had believed in.  

Bucky had been a soldier, but he’d never considered himself a murderer.  Now, that protective veneer of justification had been chipped away like flaking paint.  Sure, he’d been following Lukin’s orders; and sure, he was incapable of defying an order as unambiguous as that one had been.  But it had still been his hands.  The image of the prisoner falling over dead with a gunshot wound he’d put in him was still burned into his retinas, but the real fear that had seized his heart in a vice was the fact that Bucky _knew_ this was only the beginning.

 _Wait, why have we stopped walking?_   Bucky looked up, blinking in confusion.  He had never been in _this_ room before.   
  
The tinge of stale cigarette and cigar smoke clung in the air of what was undoubtedly a war room.  Thick stacks of manila folders stamped in Cyrillic and sheaves of paper were piled on top of a large oval-shaped table ringed with a dozen chairs.  Peeking out from beneath the stacks of files were bits and pieces of an enormous map of Europe.  A croupiers’ rake leaned against the side and various unit markers had apparently been brushed to the edges of the plotting table.  As Bucky’s eyes strayed to visible locations trying to glean some useful information, Fairbanks snapped his fingers, wresting his attention back to him.  

“Undress, _Carus_ , and put these on.”  Fairbanks instructed, pressing a stack of folded clothing into Bucky’s arms.  More and more, Bucky had noticed Fairbanks not depending on the full-strength of a _command_ he was bound to follow, instead directing Bucky like a commanding officer.  He fucking _knew_ Bucky was picking his battles – because why bother digging his heels in on something relatively innocuous when he could follow up with an order that would _make_ him do it, possibly with the added side-effect of punishment for being obstinate.  Bucky _knew_ that this was part of their fucking tactics to condition him into their obedient soldier, but goddamn it if it wasn’t working.   
  
Bucky’s stomach twisted when the bundle of clothes turned out to be a full United States Air Force pilot’s uniform.  To complicate matters, Bucky couldn’t help but notice the long slits cut into the back of the jacket and undershirt.  _The fuck was going on?_  
  
Fairbanks continued speaking as Bucky, making no effort to hide his trepidation, started to change into the uniform.  “It brings me great pleasure to announce that we have a mission for you, _Carus_.  You have come very far in your training, and it is finally time that you can serve the purpose that you were _made_ for!”  Fairbanks spoke as if this should be something that Bucky was excited about.  Truth be told, if he still had that loaded weapon and didn’t have his standing orders, he would have been very tempted to put a bullet between his own eyes.  
  
Maybe it would even kill him.  
  
“You didn’t _make_ me.” Bucky grumbled quietly enough he hoped that Fairbanks didn’t actually hear him.  

For better or worse, Fairbanks was distracted as Lukin slipped into the room, looking over Bucky’s pilot uniform with a crisp nod, “It will have to do.  Did you procure the rest of the materials?”  
  
“We’re getting there,” Fairbanks ground his teeth.  During the months of training, Bucky had seen Fairbanks and Lukin share each others’ company only sparingly.  They traded off on his instructions over the long days like taking shifts at watch.  Bucky hated to admit how much he preferred it when Fairbanks was directing matters.  
  
“This mission will utilize many of the skills you have accrued over the past several months, _Carus_.  Following your briefing, you will be shipping out in the company of your commanding officer for this mission, Lieutenant Sokolov.”  It was easy to forget that Fairbanks had been in the military; he hadn’t even introduced himself by his rank.  But when he was giving drill orders or taking charge of a debriefing, his entire demeanor changed to a sharp-eyed, savvy strategist.  

Wait _today_?  No wonder they let him actually get some damn sleep the night before.  Bucky’s heart banged in his chest: this was an opportunity is what it was!  He was getting out of the compound.  He’d been waiting so _fucking_ long for this.  

Being sent out of the facility, however, was a double-edged sword.  If he fucked up this opportunity, then he would be turned into something so much worse than a monster: a soldier for Hydra.  There had to be some way to throw a wrench into things.  His eyes darted desperately around the room, looking for something, _anything_ that might help. 

Fairbanks picked up one of the thick manila envelopes, withdrew a folded map and spread it across the table between them.   
  
Bucky immediately identified it as the blueprints of a large airport laid out like a ring, German text proclaiming it to be _Flughafen Berlin-Tempelhof._ It wasn’t even a military base, but a civilian airport. The knot in his stomach tied a little bit tighter.  “I thought the war was over.” Bucky said with a skeptical scowl. 

“Oh, it is.  But when one conflict ends it seems to only open the door to another.  I do not need to tell you that ‘World War I’ was once called ‘The Great War.’  Many others called it ‘the War to End all Wars.’”  Fairbanks paused, drawing in a long breath through his nose.  “We were naive back then.  Already, tension is building in the carcass of Berlin and we are walking the razor’s edge to prevent another ground war or – worse – a nuclear one.  That is the last thing Hydra wants.”

Lukin cleared his throat sharply, “ _Need to know_ , Fairbanks.  The demon does not need a history lesson to do its job.”

Bucky prickled.  His mouth opened and loosed words before he could stop himself, “Shouldn’t I know what this strike is about?  I thought you _wanted_ me complicit, _Elliot_.”  Fairbanks’s jaw clenched.  “What happened to ‘you could have genuine power in this organization,’ huh?  Or was that just fucking pillow talk?”

Lukin’s hand balled into a fist around the folder he was holding, crinkling the papers.  

Bucky hid his smile under the pretense of studying the airport layout.  Spats between Fairbanks and Lukin had been growing in frequency – especially during his training; they were sure to argue about this the moment Bucky was out of sight.  A fractured command structure led to mistakes; the more Bucky could get them to fight between themselves, the better.  

“You have not yet proven your dedication, _Carus_.  But you are on your way.”  Fairbanks spoke to Bucky, but his eyes remained fixed on Lukin.  Bucky could have sliced the tension in the air with his claws. 

 <“We will see about that.”> Lukin muttered in Russian, with a look that cut through the layers of Bucky’s mask of loyalty.   
  
“Regardless,” Fairbanks continued as if Lukin hadn’t spoken, “your mission is as follows: you will be masquerading as an American pilot and taken to _Tempelhof_ airport.  On your transport, you will be provided with a large pack.  Inside is a disassembled DShK machine gun; with your strength, you should have no problem firing it without the tripod, as you cannot leave the evidence behind that anchoring it would create. You will jump from the aircraft, taking the pack we provide you, and stealthily make your way to this side of the tarmac.” Fairbanks pointed towards an area with numerous red markings, “the airport is still under construction and should provide an additional blind that you need to assemble the weapon on site.  Assemble the gun as quickly as possible and use it to bring down a C-54 aircraft.”  Fairbanks placed a photograph of an aircraft down on the table next to the map of the airport.  
  
A whole fucking _airplane_?  He’d expected an assassination, but that aircraft looked like it could probably hold 50 people.  What if there were civilians on board?  His eyes prickled and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting as he felt Fairbanks’s orders enveloping him like a straightjacket.  Wait a minute – his brain caught up with a detail of the instructions – “’jump from the aircraft?’  You want me to fly?”  

“Of course,” Fairbanks addressed him with a disappointed frown, as if he’d just asked a stupid question.  “Was that not clear?  After all, you provide us with a unique set of skills that would have made this mission much more complicated otherwise.”  

“How the hell is a whole airport full of people not supposed to notice a fucking _demon_ coming in for a landing – especially carrying that fucking beast of a gun?”  Bucky shook his head, reeling at the proposal.  He’d expected his first mission to be more of a cake walk than this batshit maneuver.  

Fairbanks pressed on, “You should be too small to show up on radar, and our intelligence suggests that heavy storms will have set in by the time you arrive, so visibility should be low.  That should not hamper your effectiveness, but instead should provide you the necessary cover to fly down to the ground undetected and make the crash appear to be accidental.  Leave immediately after the mission is complete and rendezvous with Sokolov in the air, taking all of you equipment with you.  It is vital that you are not seen taking down the aircraft, and make certain your weapon is concealed and you evade detection when you return to your transport.  The crash should prove an ample distraction for someone of your capabilities.”  

Every fibre of Bucky’s being railed against the mission orders.  _God, it’s happening, they’re turning me into one of them and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it._ It was like standing in front of a locomotive headed straight towards him with his feet caught on the tracks. 

Fairbanks shuffled a page to the top of the stack he was holding, and began to read aloud.  “Your specific orders for this mission are as follows:  Do not speak with anyone outside your team beyond what is required to accomplish the mission.  Avoid detection flying to or from your transport.  Evade capture at all costs.  You are to do _nothing_ that would compromise the mission or reveal your identity.  Remain guised when you are not on the wing unless it is absolutely necessary to the mission or your escape.  If anyone without affiliation to Hydra witnesses your attack, dispatch them and use the crash to make their death seem accidental.  You are to follow your CO’s orders as long as they do not contradict any of my orders.  Your other standing orders still apply.” 

Bucky picked at the patches on the uniform, mind racing as the words boxed him in.  

Fairbanks took a breath because apparently that wasn’t fucking enough, “You are not to board any other vehicles on this mission unless ordered by your CO.   Finally, a new standing order: while on mission, your top priority at all times is completion of mission objective.  Understood, soldier?”

Each sentence Fairbanks spoke added another weight to Bucky’s shoulders.  His ears were ringing with the onslaught of instructions, but he knew in his bones that it didn’t even fucking matter if he could remember this litany of orders.  His _body_ knew them.  They might as well have been new laws of physics.  “Understood,” Bucky echoed hollowly.  

He’d find a way.  He’d _have_ to. He’d been holding onto his discovery of being bound only to the _letter_ of the order, not the intent, for months in hopes of an opportunity just like this one.  He’d have an entire fucking trip to Berlin to find a way – some way – in these precise orders for enough leeway to work against them.  

“Very well, then follow me.”  Fairbanks said, securing the documents back into his file folder and heading towards the door.  
  
Just like that, they were heading back towards the entrance of the facility, Lukin bringing up the rear and preventing Bucky from dragging his feet as much as he would have liked.  Bucky could feel the general’s eyes boring a hole on the back of his neck as they walked, like he were just _waiting_ for him to slip up somehow right there in front of him. 

By the time they made their way outside the front gates, the body had been cleared away and replaced by a fucking plane, specifically a Douglas C-54 Skymaster, the same model as the photo he’d been shown.  Sokolov stood at attention at the bottom of the airstairs, also dressed in a full USAF pilot’s uniform.  

But Bucky couldn’t wrest his eyes away from the gravel where flecks of mahogany still painted the rocks.  The memory of what he did here just a few hours ago sank from his mind like a stone to the pit of his stomach.  They were sending him right back out again right after – after fucking _proving_ that he would kill for them on command.  No questions, no hesitation.  He had become the monster they wanted him to be. 

“So you can recognize your ride from the outside.” Fairbanks came up beside him, pulling his attention back up to the plane.  A pinup girl dressed like a classic devil in red with horns and a pitchfork was emblazoned across the nose of the plane above the words “Lucky Devil”.  Fairbanks looked far too smug for the paint job to have been a coincidence.  Bucky was past the point of giving two shits.  

“For the duration of the mission, you are under the command of Lieutenant Sokolov,”  Fairbanks instructed as he turned back towards Bucky, handing him a pilot’s hat, scarf, and goggles.  Bucky’s fingers worried over the smooth holes that had been cut into the top of the hat; modified to fit his horns, apparently.  “You are to wear these at all times on the mission.  If you’re seen on the ground, or need to land for whatever reason, you should look like any other pilot disembarking after a long flight.  Not to worry, I doubt anyone will take notice of some holes in your helmet what with your dark hair and the pouring rain.  Wear the goggles and scarf to obscure your face.”   Bucky put on the last bits of his disguise with a resigned frown.  “Your equipment is on board the plane.”  

Fairbanks took a breath, his expression clearing into a close-lipped smile.  “Good luck, soldier!” He clapped him on the back, “I expect a full report on your return.” 

Bucky packed every ounce of bitter sarcasm he could into the salute he threw back at Fairbanks before turning to follow Sokolov up the stairs.  

Bucky ducked his head as he entered the plane, his heart in his throat, and immediately began scouring for anything that could help him.  Hydra had gone to a lot of trouble completing the façade considering that if the mission went as planned, the plane would never even land in Berlin.  Inside, the 50-seater had been converted: stacks upon stacks of crates marked food, coal, and medical filled up the hull and was secured into place by heavy-duty restraints.  A half dozen other Hydra soldiers filled the remaining seats decked out in Air Force uniforms, and he noted a large olive duffle bag strapped in place against the entrance to the cabin.  So they were disguising themselves as a damn supply runner.  The fucking irony.  Some poor shlub was going to be expecting to receive aid from them and instead…  

Bucky’s eyes suddenly caught on the reading of one of the myriad instruments in the cockpit:  
  
Zone 46 E: 583597.3  N:7544217.8

Those were UTM coordinates.  That was their fucking location here at the base.  His heart seized at the luck, and Bucky schooled his face to remain neutral as Sokolov came up behind him.   

“Sit in the copilot’s seat, strap in.”  He said matter-of-factly in unaccented English as he slid around Bucky and took a position in the captain’s chair.  “We only speak English on this mission.  Get some rest; it is a long flight and I am not interested in chat.”

Bucky settled back, repeating the numbers to himself in his head like a mantra as the plane roared to life.  

* 

Focusing on the set of coordinates, like repeating his enlistment number, had _almost_ managed to keep Bucky’s thoughts from gravitating back to the hazel-eyed prisoner.  By the time the aircraft had begun circling in a holding pattern above Berlin, Bucky knew the coordinates of the Siberian base better than his mother’s face.  Sokolov’s communication with the tower had drawn him out of his meditation and he prickled with anticipation for the mission.  

Fairbanks hadn’t been kidding about the inclement weather.  Despite being mid-day, the skies were black with heavy rainclouds; the runway that was only a few thousand feet below them according to the dials was impossible to make out.  Heavy winds buffeted the plane and he could _feel_ each crack of thunder like nearby explosions.  

Bucky disguised his dubious look towards Sokolov by lowering the goggles over his eyes.  These conditions would have been perilous even for good pilots, though he had no idea of Sokolov’s experience.  Granted, Bucky wasn’t entirely sure which side he was rooting for right now: Sokolov or the weather.  Had his hands not been tied by his standing orders not to hurt any Hydra agents, he would have been damn tempted to let _this_ plane be the C-54 he was ordered to bring down.  The long flight had given him plenty of time to work around dozens of permutations in his head and just what leeway Fairbanks’s orders afforded him.  

Still, he wasn’t sure how the hell Hydra expected him to fly through the storm himself.  Then again, they knew full well that Bucky had been able to successfully navigate a blizzard when he had been properly motivated, but it didn’t make him feel any more comfortable free-diving out into that mess.  Maybe he’d get struck by lightning - wouldn’t that be nice?  

“Many planes are in the air.  Tower has ordered holding pattern for fifteen minutes.  You are to complete your mission objective within that timeframe; that is an order, Demon.  I will be flashing green lights on tail so you identify plane from distance, and check nose art before boarding,”  Sokolov clipped out in a no-nonsense tone, his Russian accent slipping out as he wrestled with the plane controls through the storm.   
  
Bucky unbuckled his seat belt and exited the cockpit, hefting the deceptively heavy bag and looping his arms through its straps until he was clutching it against his torso.  

Bucky shivered out of the guise.  He unsheathed his wings, slipping them out of the slits of his flight uniform and worked his tail out of the pants.  He couldn’t shake the ominous feeling building around him like the storm itself.  

One of the other Hydra members attached to the plane by a static line stood and went to the port side cargo door.  He counted down from five fingers, Bucky’s heart beating a little louder after each one.  When the countdown became a fist, the soldier wrested open the door.

Screaming winds nearly ripped Bucky out of the cabin; he had to brace his hands against the doorframe to steady himself for the jump.  He took a breath, set his jaw, and dove before the Hydra agent had the chance to boot him out. 

For a couple of heartbeats, Bucky let himself plunge straight down through the howling storm and stinging rain, wings poised like a falcon in the dive as flashes of lightning illuminated the cloistering ebony clouds.  He clutched the pack to his chest like a pillow as he plummeted headfirst towards the ground, wondering absently if the visibility were such shit, maybe he wouldn’t even know when he was close to the tarmac.  Maybe – with a fall like this – it would just be over quick and painlessly; it wouldn’t even be intentional.  Ultimately however, as the clouds began to thin, he lost his internal game of chicken and flared his wings open to catch the air.  

He nearly dropped the package as his wings snapped him up; the full force of his fall transferring to the already heavy payload.  His shoulders and the joints of his wings wrenched, but he held tight, flapping to break the tension and slowly ease himself downward.  Moments later, he broke the cloud cover and his stomach did a somersault: he was barely a hundred feet above the pavement.      
  
_C’mon, Buck.  No time to freak out. Not yet.  I’ve got a job to do and a short amount of time to do it.  That free fall will have bought me some extra time, but if I want to execute my own mission as well, I’ve got to fucking hurry!_  
  
Bucky spotted the latticework of the incomplete construction rising out of the airport like an exposed skeleton.  He landed hard behind one of the riblike spires, dropping the pack at his feet with a CLANG and sheathed himself in his guise as his hands automatically began to assemble the _Dushka_ machine gun.

The heavy stormclouds smothered the airport like a grimy blanket held up by the tops of the buildings.  Even the flashing lights of landing planes were barely visible from more than a hundred feet away.  Sheets of water buffeted him, drenching him even through the thick uniform, and Bucky was thankful for the goggles of his disguise.  Seeing through water running in rivulets down his face would have otherwise been an additional challenge he really didn’t need right now.  The scarf over his nose and mouth, however, was soaked to the point that it was like trying to breathe through a wet sponge.  It was hard enough getting the mechanics made slippery by the rain to lock into place without also worrying about drowning in a fucking scarf.  

_Maybe the gun will jam; that wouldn’t be my fault_.  

Within seconds, he held the fully assembled weapon in his hands, and had loaded the ammunition belt into place.  He took a soggy breath, scoured the skies and dropped to a knee, the machine gun’s grim potential heavy in his arms.  

As he watched the circling planes, counting out the time between landings – only a few minutes apart, some of them hitting the tarmac rough and skidding on the slick concrete – Bucky began to carve out a string of letters and numbers with the claws of his left hand into the pavement.  

Zone 46     E: 583597.3     N:7544217.8  
  
He’d thought this through.  This wasn’t “contact” – he wasn’t making a connection with a person.  Leaving a message is what you did when you _couldn’t_ make contact with someone.  Besides, he had no clue who – if anyone- would find this.  This was just graffiti on the tarmac.   
  
The moment the final number was inscribed, Bucky hefted the gun and took aim.  They said to bring one down.  _Fine_.  They didn’t say how far.  
  
Bucky watched one of the C-54’s bank for a landing, wobbling a little in the air and coming in a little too fast.  He waited – one breath… two… the plane was only a dozen or two feet up.  He sent up a silent prayer to whatever might be listening, hoping to spare the lives of those on board, and opened fire.   The gun kicked like a herd of mules, but Bucky kept the machine level and steady, keeping the gunfire deliberately concentrated on the landing gear and the underbelly - _just_ enough to send the aircraft hurtling into the pavement at the wrong angle.  Nowhere it should rip through and strike a person.  The pilot lost control, veering off course and slammed into the pavement hard before running straight through a picket fence at the end of the airfield.  

A trail of debris littered the strip behind it and a second plane followed close – too close – behind it.  The aircraft tried to swerve around the obstructions, but it was too late: the wheels burst with a sharp BOOM that rivaled the crashing thunder, sending the second plane skidding haphazardly across the runway.  
  
Bucky broke down the gun, deliberately leaving behind the shell casings scattered over the coordinates (those weren’t equipment any longer, after all).  The message had better be fucking clear: _Come and find us._  Bucky sent off the silent missive before stuffing the pieces of the weapon back into the sack.  By the time he was packed away, thick smoke had already begun to curl from the crashed plane, comingling with the dark stormclouds.  

He wanted to stay; he wanted desperately to seek out anyone alive in the plane and haul them out.  At least, thank god, everyone else in the vicinity was running towards the crash.  No one was looking his way and his orders beckoned him like a siren’s call.  Bucky kicked off from the ground, riding the fresh heat waves up and up and up, using the chaos to hide his escape.  
  
*  
Three sets of hands helped haul his tail back into the Skymaster.  

There had been a close call: thanks to the storm he had had to get fucking close to the other planes to spot the one flashing green lights on the tail, but if – _if-_ the pilot of the other plane had actually spotted him through this cursed weather, then no one would fucking believe him.  If anything, spotting a man with devil’s wings sailing above a plane crash would fit right into some of the ghost stories Bucky used to hear pilots telling when they’d wound up at the same taverns during the war.  
  
The door slammed shut, he was relieved of his duffel bag and shoved back into the seat in the cockpit with as much delicacy as a sack of potatoes slung around by a group of privates on KP duty.   Bucky missed the cheers and backslaps that accompanied a successful mission with the Howlies.  _Fuck_ , he missed the Howlies.  He missed the swell of pride in his heart; now the sensation in his chest felt more like heartburn.  

He tore the soaked scarf off of his mouth with a desperate gasp before leaning back in the seat, letting sweet air fill his lungs to capacity.  _God_ was that what it had been like for Steve during an asthma attack?  Not able to pull in a full breath and feeling like he was struggling to take in enough oxygen to keep from suffocating?  How the hell had he managed all those years, and still picked fights knowing what it would do to him?

Tinny orders from the tower crackled to life in Sokolov’s headset and pulled Bucky out of his thoughts: due to inclement weather and debris on the landing strip, all aircraft in holding patterns were being routed to other airfields.  Praise came in the form of the slightest smile on Sokolov’s lips and an order to settle back and keep his hands to himself. 

*  
When Bucky finally disembarked the plane, he was still rattling from the thrumming motors of the aircraft.  Silence was a constant buzz and his bones were jelly as he stumbled on the last stair.  

Fairbanks stood at the doorway to the facility, his hands clasped innocuously behind his back and wearing a genial smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  Lukin’s greeting came in the form of a tightening frown.  What fresh hell was this, now?  Weren’t they pleased with his fucking _performance_ … or did they somehow know about the message that he left?

He dropped the guise defiantly as he strode up to them, tail flicking behind him as he made to shoulder past them, feigning indifference to their reaction. 

He could have predicted the moment Lukin’s hand clamped down on his shoulder.  “Where do you think you are going?”

“To the mess hall.  No one bothered to feed me on the plane.” Bucky responded with a challenging tone.  “What, you’re going to treat me like one of your soldiers but not feed me like one?”  

“You think you have earned a _reward_?” Lukin asked incredulously.  “There were not even any casualties in the attack.”  
  
Bucky’s heart stammered.  No casualties?  Thank fucking _Christ!_ He wanted to whoop for joy or cry in relief– instead he redirected it, bristling back at Lukin, “Neither of you said _anything_ about killing anyone in your orders!  You ordered me to bring a plane down, _sir_.”  He snarled, letting the honorific drip with sarcasm, “I brought the plane down.  As commanded.”    

“He has a point,” Fairbanks murmured with – was that the hint of a smile? “The crash alone should serve to accomplish our underlying goals.  There is no need for loss of life with every attack; sometimes underscoring an enemy’s weakness can accomplish more than exploiting it.  We are not fighting the same sort of war, _General._ Not any longer.”

“I do not need a damned lesson on tactics, _Colonel._ ”  Lukin turned the full brunt of his ire towards Fairbanks.  “Or have you forgotten which country _actually_ defeated the Nazis?  Tunner wasn’t even on either of the planes that collided with the airfield.”

“Perhaps not,” Fairbanks conceded with a shrug, “but it was the correct model of aircraft.  There was not enough intelligence or opportunity to specifically target his plane.  Regardless, it will serve as the wakeup call we need.”

Lukin headed for the plane with an irritated wave of his hand, “Take your damned pet, but do not think that this conversation is over.”

Fairbanks stood silently by Bucky’s side for a moment until Lukin had stalked off out of hearing range.  “Do not be concerned, _Carus_.  You performed well today.  You followed our orders _to the letter_.”  There was something in Fairbanks’s words that came out jagged.  He knew about the loophole.  He had to.  Fear shot down his spine, but Fairbanks continued, his voice turning smooth, “And now you are back home to me, safe and sound.”  

His hand squeezed around Bucky’s right shoulder as he guided him back into the facility.  Bucky prayed the Americans – or hell, even the Germans – would find his message.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  The events of this chapter are based on a real incident in Berlin, called the  
> [Black Friday incident](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berlin_Blockade#Black_Friday)  
> Hydra aims to destabilize and increase tension in Berlin (seeding some chaos),  
> while strengthening the Russian influence without starting nuclear war.


	18. Chapter 18

Bucky jerked awake, his hand automatically reaching out to silence the alarm before it woke Fairbanks, only to realize a moment later that the clock was still and silent.  It was barely four in the morning.  The claxons were coming from all around him.

A series of realizations hit Bucky’s waking mind all at once: that was the emergency alarm; it was happening.  His message in Berlin must have gotten through.  _Holy shit._   

Before Bucky had the chance to slip out of bed, Fairbanks sat bolt upright beside him.  “Get your gear on.  _Now!”_ he ordered in a hushed whisper, eyes wide.  Bucky’s hackles raised as he headed for the corner where the pile of black tactical gear had been left crumpled on his palette after the previous hard day’s training.  His floor palette that had been otherwise neglected since the second week he’d been sleeping in Fairbanks’s room.  He wished Fairbanks would let him use it instead of making him sleep in his bed every fucking night; he would have rather slept on the floor like a damned dog that in his bed like a lover.  

The older man got to his feet, mirroring Bucky’s movements as they both dressed and armed themselves.  After his first away mission two weeks ago, he’d finally earned himself a full set of tactical gear.  It was nonstandard: solid black and more leather than cloth, the jacket missing the left sleeve.  Darted slits had been worked into the design of the jacket to not draw attention to the slats when his wings were sheathed.  Bucky wasn’t sure what the fucking point of all these goddamn buttoned straps were, however, other than to slow him the fuck down when he was trying to dress himself.  Granted, it did make him look all the more intimidating, like something _other_ ; he could scent the fear that sometimes wafted off of the guards when they had to pass him in the hallways without Fairbanks or Lukin by his side.  That he’d begun to appreciate. 

Bucky risked a furtive glance to Fairbanks’s back where he had gotten to the walkie talkie.  “What the hell is going on, General?!”  What he would have given for the ability to cold cock Fairbanks.  Although, a sleeper hold wouldn’t _hurt_ him… technically.  Bucky stepped up behind him, but his arms refused to cooperate, instead draping almost reassuringly over his shoulder. 

Fairbanks waved him off in irritation as Lukin’s voice crackled over the machine, “The base is under attack.  Execute order 13.”  The line dissolved into hissing, but not before a brief rapport of gunfire came through the line.  Bucky felt a nearly unfamiliar sensation of hope wriggle through him.  He needed to get the _fuck_ out of here.

Fairbanks’s face had gone ashen as he withdrew a key from his writing desk with a shaking hand, unlocking a chest at the foot of the bed.  Hurriedly, he packed a few items wrapped in cloth into his satchel before handing Bucky a _Kalashnikov AK-47_.  

“I’ll go check it out.”  Bucky attempted, snagging the gun and jogging towards the door, sheathing himself in his guise.  If he could just make it to the invaders, tell them who the fuck they needed to kill-  
  
“HALT!” Fairbanks snapped, “That is an _order_ , _Carus_.  Where the hell do you think you’re going?!  Drop your guise.  Come here.”

 _Fuck._ Bucky snarled, turning on his heel and whipping his tail back and forth as he leveled a glare at Fairbanks.  

“After all this time, you still think me an imbecile?” Fairbanks snapped with barely-concealed fury.  “You think I don’t know that you still yearn for your freedom?”  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bucky hissed. 

Fairbanks grabbed him roughly by the chin, bringing his eyes down on level with his.  “The hell you don’t.  You think I didn’t see the way you smiled when the alarm went off?”  He shook his head tightly, hefting his satchel that was full to bulging.  

“This was all a fucking sham to begin with, Fairbanks.  The only thing you’ve offered me is to be complacent in exchange for a slightly cushier seat in hell,” he gestured angrily to the bed.  “You like to pretend what you’re doing to me isn’t rape on the regular?  That you’re not forcing me to betray everything I hold dear?!  I hope they burn this fucking hellhole to the ground.”  He wanted it straight?  _Fine_.  If things were going to hell, _let it come_.  

“We don’t have time for this; everything we have worked for is at stake.”  Fairbanks snapped, and Bucky _knew_ those words were going to come back to bite him later, but he couldn’t find the means to give a damn right now.  It felt too good to say what he’d been wanting to for _months_.  Months of fucking complacency to bide his time.  Well that time was fucking now.  “Your orders are as follows: escort me to the hangar on Subbasement 1.  Kill any intruders along the way, but your _primary_ mission is to keep me _safe and unharmed_.”

Bucky set his jaw, letting his glare say everything he wanted to, grabbed Fairbanks roughly by the arm, and led him out the door.  

Red lights pulsed through the hallway, although the claxons had ceased their screaming after just a few minutes: long enough to wake everyone in the facility.  The staccato of distant gunfire reached Bucky’s sensitive ears, though from the sounds of it, the attackers hadn’t penetrated the basement levels yet.   

_If we hurry, I could get Fairbanks to a plane before he forces me to hurt anyone.  And then… then… I’ll figure something out._

They made as far as the stairwell before all hell broke loose.  

A squad of men in US Marine Corps uniforms burst into the stairwell from the ground level, right as they made it to the second subbasement.  

“GET BACK!” Bucky shouted, half to Fairbanks, half to the Marines, wishing that they had the sense to listen.  

Fairbanks ducked back into the doorframe as Bucky opened fired with his assault rifle, spraying the stairwell with cover-fire as the men ducked back away from the railing.  _Maybe if I run out of ammo…_

But a moment later, he found himself moving; clearing a flight of stairs a bound at a time as he tore his way towards them like a rabid dog let off the chain.  He let go of the rifle as he passed the first subbasement – it wouldn’t be effective in the close quarters he needed.  The men turned, forming a crude phalanx, anticipating him to round the final turn.  Instead, Bucky leapt, grabbing the ledge of the stairwell with his left hand and swinging himself up and over.  He met the face of the man in front with his boots; the Marine didn’t even slow Bucky’s momentum as he drove his head into the concrete and rolled to his feet amongst them.  

They opened fire, already screaming at the horned _thing_ in their midst.  But by the time their fingers squeezed the triggers, he was already moving inhumanly fast, blocking the closest shot with his left arm and following through, driving the rifle _through_ the infantryman who had fired on him.  

“Run, _please!”_ Bucky begged, tears prickling his eyes as he began a deadly dance.  It was like a tiger had been released into a herd of goats.  More opened fire behind him, but their rifles weren’t intended for melee range.  He hunched his shoulders, catching the bullets with the hard plating of his back, kicking off of the Marine in front of him to slam the men behind him into the metal wall hard enough to leave a bloody dent.  He spun, tail grabbing a knife from the boot of one man and slicing it through the neck of the man next to him as he tore a bloody swath with his claws through the men to his sides.  Bucky ripped through them like tissue paper with claws and teeth and brutal efficiency, all the while imploring them to turn and run.  No one listened.  

Bucky gasped a sob as the final bodies fell motionless around him, blood forming a particulate haze in the air as if a grenade had exploded.  How _could_ he?  These were Americans, _allies_.  These were the men who had come _because of him_.  His hands began to shake violently, sleeved up to the elbows in their blood.  _Please, fuck, stop me!  Someone stop me!  I can’t do this anymore – I don’t want to hurt any more good men!!  What have I done, what have I become-_

“ _CARUS!”_ Fairbanks shouted, wrenching him out of his head and back to action.  

Bucky tore a segment of the handrail from the staircase with a quick yank and slid it through the pull handle of the door, driving its end hard into the wall to the side.  That should keep the Marines out of the stairwell for a little while, at least.  He hoped it would save their lives.  

“GET TO THE FIRST SUBBASEMENT DOOR!” Bucky barked at Fairbanks, vaulting over the railing to land by the door.  He scooped up the assault rifle and snarled savagely at Fairbanks for good measure before kicking open the door.  

The hallway that led to the hangar was silent, strobing lights painting the walls red like the blood in the stairwell between every breath.  Every flash of crimson assaulted Bucky with the gory visage of just moments before, a ghostly image overlaying the abandoned hallway.  He wouldn’t do this, he _couldn’t_ do this anymore, and yet he jogged down the hallway with Fairbanks in tow.

“You are exquisite, you know, with your full potential released,” Fairbanks had the fucking _nerve_ to say to him as he listened at the door to the hanger.

Bucky snapped.  He turned sharply, flaring his wings and gnashing his teeth, “Don’t you even fucking _talk_ to me, you piece of absolute human _garbage_.  If I had a fucking _ounce_ of agency left I want you to _know_ that I would tear your fucking face off!”  

“Enough!” Fairbanks shouted, “I hate to do this, but you need to _hurt_ , _Carus_.” 

Bucky’s world exploded into raw, hot pain.  An inhuman screech that rivaled the alarm claxons reverberated in his ears, but no sound he could have uttered could encompass the pure agony that seared his nerves.  Time suspended; pain was all there was.  

Eventually, an unknowable period later, Bucky struggled past the wall of molten misery and time resumed its march forward.  His vision resolved from the blinding red to dancing motes of light against fuzzy darkness, and the cold concrete of the floor pressed against his right side from where he must have fallen over.  His whole body trembled, the pain still agonizing but having eased enough to concentrate primarily in the pentagram seared into his shoulder, now running red with fresh blood.  Fairbanks stood over him, hands on his hips and his face painted with disappointment.  

“You will do as you’re told.” Fairbanks spoke evenly over Bucky’s screaming nerves, “Perhaps I have given you too much latitude, but I truly thought that you could be more than just Hydra’s weapon.  We will discuss this further when I return.  For now, get up, _Carus_.  That is an order.  Escort me into the hangar.”  
  
Bucky pushed himself through the fading pain back onto his feet, his limbs shaky and his mind fuzzy with the aftereffects.  His tongue was swollen and heavy in his mouth as he pressed the door open, almost hoping for a barrage of enemy – _no, NOT enemy – ally!-_ fire.  

Instead, a group of three Hydra soldiers stood at attention around a plane, its engines already roaring and pointed towards the long sloping basement runway that led to a bay door where another pair of soldiers stood at the ready.  Bucky recognized one of them as Petrov, while Sokolov stood at the open door of the plane.  

“So you’re running.” Bucky said flatly, not bothering to disguise his sneer.  

“Of course.  I am not needed here for this.”  Contempt roiled Bucky’s gut.  “You, however, have a job to do.  Your mission is as follows: remain in the facility and kill the intruders.  Do not stop until the base is secured back in Hydra’s hands.” 

Fear far stronger than the pain command impaled Bucky.  _No – no no no!_   That elusive glimmer of hope was tarnishing before his eyes, replaced with bone-crushing horror.  “Fairbanks, wait!  Don’t make me do this!  They’re Americans – our own damn countrymen!  Stop this madness!”

Bucky’s words fell on impassionate ears; Fairbanks turned without so much as a glance over his shoulders and ascended the stairs to board the plane.  And Bucky turned on his heel, stalking back towards the compound with murder in his blood and dread in his heart.  

God help them all.

*

It was a bloodbath. 

It didn’t matter how much Bucky begged or shouted or roared for the troops to flee, to go after the plane that had left the compound, or even to bomb it all to kingdom come.  They all turned their weapons on the monster ravaging their numbers, deaf to his pleas.  He had been wrong – the torture he’d endured to his own body at Hydra’s hands was inconsequential; being turned against men that should have been his allies was true hell. 

His sole concession was the fact that none of his orders had instilled a shred of loyalty to the other Hydra troops.  While he could not act directly against them, he sure as hell didn’t have to protect them.  When he encountered a squad of the Soviets engaged in a standoff with the Marines, he didn’t hesitate diving behind a cluster of guards to let them block a volley of gunfire.  From his crouch near the back, he spied the familiar slim form and square shoulders of Oleg.  He grabbed him, using him as a human shield as he closed the distance to the Americans, smiling wickedly as Oleg pissed himself before taking three shots square to the chest.  The rat bastard had that coming for a long, _long_ time.  

Bucky’s vengeful satisfaction was short lived.  

He hit the troops like a storm.  His fighting style tempered from the war, his enhancements and Hydra’s merciless training had crafted him into a brutally effective killing machine.  Feral savagery blended with a calculating mind and peerless physique.  One blow led immediately into another - his inhuman limbs moved with precise and graceful movements in perfect concert alongside his mundane weaponry.  Wings struck out, their small claws catching throats and exposed flesh at a longer range and wider angle than arms cold reach.  His tail jerked legs out from underneath men who had no idea how to fight something like him.  They never had the chance to get up – a single gunshot each delivered squarely to the forehead from a stolen sidearm kept them down for good.  A nauseating crack and spurt of blood splattered hot on the back of his neck as he knocked his head back into the man behind him, his horns driving into the man’s skull like a railroad spike.  He barely felt the sting of a grazing shot that clipped his right arm, spinning immediately to send a thorny elbow into the shooter’s solar plexus.  The sickening crunch as it collapsed from the impact and the Marine’s shocked gurgle would haunt Bucky’s nightmares for years.  

Even the Hydra soldiers went green around the gills, their aimed rifles replaced by slack-jaws and wide eyes as Bucky made quick work of the troop that had pinned them down.  None of them dared fire into the fray as Bucky wove through the American troops like a shuttle through the threads of a loom. 

Bucky’s body stayed relentlessly on task, but his mind slipped away, overwhelmed and sickened by the bloodshed.  His thoughts subsumed into the quiet sniper’s detachment that drowned out the horrors he was committing into a static white noise.   

The moment the squad was down, Bucky moved on, the distant chatter of gunfire calling him like a dog whistle.  He moved like an animal, leaping and bounding along walls and through corridors, dodging gunfire and deflecting knives and bullets with his hardened plating.  He descended on the intruders like night, extinguishing their lives like the last light of day.  From the back of his mind, Bucky wished he could stop himself, slow his movements or give them an opportunity to fight back and put an end to his own suffering, but he could just as soon stop the setting of the sun as stay his hand.  

Bucky didn’t stop, _couldn’t_ stop until silence settled through the facility like the ringing stillness after a grenade and the strobing red lights dimmed to the smoky yellow of standard military-grade lighting.  

When he finally collapsed to his knees, tremors seizing his hands, Bucky felt as dead as the corpses strewn in his wake.  His throat had grown raw as sandpaper with his fruitless warnings and hot tears streaked down his face, carving trenches in the bloodspray staining his cheeks.  What little was in his stomach was soon emptied onto the floor, the astringent taste of bile almost covering the coppery tang of blood coating his mouth.  He’d laid waste to his only hope at a rescue.  _Good men_ who died trying to stop Hydra.  The few already-closing wounds he’d suffered weren’t nearly enough.  

The sharp clicking of boots on the hard tile broke the silence.  Bucky’s claws dug into the flooring, a feral growl in his throat as he slowly raised his head to meet Lukin’s harsh stare.

<“Look at you, on the ground and snarling: I always knew you were no more than a beast,”> Lukin sneered as he came to a halt just a few feet away. 

“That’s what you have to fucking say?” Bucky’s voice was broken glass.  “I do… I do _this-_ ” he hissed the word, “-and you have the _gall_ to berate me?  I fought for you, you sick bastard.  I _killed_ for you!” 

<“I certainly am not going to _thank_ you for doing what it is you were ordered to do.  I would no sooner thank my rifle for firing when I squeeze the trigger,” > Lukin’s hand drifted to his sidearm at his belt, thumb lingering on the catch of the holster.  <“Besides, that was no insult; it was merely a confirmation of fact.  You still think of yourself as a man?  As one of them?”> Lukin gestured to Bucky’s crouch, lashing tail and bared teeth.  <“You left that behind a long time ago, demon.  What remains is no more genuine than the guise you take – an illusion.  A phantom limb.  You believe that had this assault been successful they would have taken you back with them with open arms?”> He scoffed.

“I don’t care.” Bucky snarled, seething, “I wish they’d killed me. I wish they’d bombed this damn building.  Anything is better than being forced to fight my allies in the name of Hydra!”

<“I do not believe you.”> Lukin mused, <“But it makes no difference.  Tell me, demon – what additional orders did Fairbanks give you today?”>  
  
Bucky scowled, his standing command to follow Lukin’s orders prying the answer from his mouth, “He ordered me to escort him to the hangar, keeping him unharmed and killing any intruders along the way.  Once he got there, I was to remain in the facility and kill the intruders.  I wasn’t permitted to stop until the base was secured back in Hydra’s hands.”

Lukin nodded succinctly. <“Good.”>  He snapped once, and a squad of Hydra guards rounded the corner, dragging a bound and bloody body of one of the Marines between them.  The form was limp, and for a moment Bucky thought he was dead, but his keen hearing picked up the sound of ragged breathing and a flittering heartbeat.  

<“This is no longer an intruder.  He is now a prisoner.”> He eyed Bucky sharply, whose stomach tied in a knot.  So they didn’t want him killed – but he wasn’t ready to hope that that was a good sign just yet.  

<“I had a very interesting conversation with this man.  According to him, a set of coordinates was discovered at the _Berlin-Tempelhof_ airport.  Carved right into the concrete.” >  Lukin’s eyes flicked down to where Bucky’s claws had dug divots into the flooring, the tiles cracking in spiderweb patterns around his fingers.  <“Tell me the truth, Demon – that is an order – did you give away the location of this base?”>

The words left his lips like traitors, “Yes.”

Lukin went livid, <“You – _suchka_ -you have really fucked up now.  You don’t even know what you’ve done!  Mark these words, demon, you are going to regret this betrayal!” >

Bucky rose onto his knees, shouting back, “Good.  I’m fucking glad you know.  I will fight you every step of the way, and I will never stop fighting! I will take every inch of latitude you give me and pry it open until I have dismantled this maggot-infested den of Nazi-rejects from the fucking inside!”   
  
Lukin grabbed him roughly by the right shoulder, digging his thumb into a seeping, circular wound that Bucky hadn’t even registered until now.  When Bucky screamed, he squeezed harder.  <“Do you know what happens to a dog that bites the hand that feeds it?”>

“They’re… put down…?” Bucky managed hopefully through clenched teeth.  Maybe he’d finally managed to become more trouble than he was worth to this psychopath.  Their base was compromised, even if they’d stopped this attack.  

_No, I stopped the attack.  And I was the one who lured them here to begin with.  If it hadn’t been for me, these men would all still be alive._

<“When they are as _expensive_ as you, they are caged, disciplined, and retrained.”> Lukin corrected, staring down his nose shrewdly at Bucky.  <“Do not think that you will be given an out that easy.”>  He released him with a shove, sending Bucky sprawling back onto the ground, clutching at his shoulder.  

Lukin gestured to the other Hydra guards to follow and began walking, <“Come along, demon.  It is past time you returned to where you belong.”>

Bucky limped after Lukin to the stairwell, all the aches and pains of partially-healed injuries catching up with him.  When he had been fighting, he’d hardly noticed; he couldn’t even really remember being shot.   He had been covered with so much blood he hadn’t noticed that some of it had been his.  

Bucky had the sneaking suspicion that they were taking the stairs as an extra measure of punishment.  However, when they past the second subbasement where he had been staying with Fairbanks, exiting instead into the hallway of the third, his misgivings developed into full on paranoia.  “Where is Fairbanks?!” Bucky demanded.  “Does he know that you’re doing this?!”

Lukin didn’t even turn around, instead continuing down a once-familiar hallway.  <“Your master went to cower elsewhere.  He will be back when he has been given the all-clear.”>  Lukin paused at the end of a hallway long enough to wrest open a heavy metal door, revealing a dank basement room with three cells set against the back wall.  In the center cell, a familiar set of tally marks had been carved into the stone beneath a stone bench.  _Home sweet home_.  

Lukin’s eyes raked over him critically.  <“Your orders are as follows: Disarm. Leave all your weapons here in the antechamber and then enter the center cell and remain there until I tell you otherwise.  You may _not_ further damage the cell, the door, or the bars.” >

Bucky threw his collection of weapons onto the cement floor, each one making a louder clatter than the one before it.  Then, he squared his shoulders, muscling past the pain in his right thigh to stride in with his head held high.  He almost welcomed being returned to his cell - it meant he didn’t have to sleep next to Fairbanks.  Fuck, it was even looking like he’d have a neighbor.  Maybe they could try to plan something together. 

However, when guards deposited the limp form of the prisoner in the same cell as Bucky, his blood ran cold.  “Wait – what are you doing?” Bucky spluttered.  

Lukin laced his fingers, a measured smile drawing across his thin lips.  <“We have beaten you, and you do not care.  You heal.  We need to do something else to show you the repercussions for your insolence?  Fine.  Your wounds have stopped healing.  You will be hungry soon enough, and then you will see for yourself why you can never go home again.”>  

Bucky’s jaw fell open, eyes darting frantically between his wounds and the unconscious American.  _No_.  But _already_ serpentine thoughts slithered into his mind despite the horrorshow that the day had been.  

Keys turned, locking them in together and the guards filed out after Lukin after gathering up Bucky’s equipment.  The heavy metal door slammed hard behind them, leaving them alone in the flickering, buzzing light.  Bucky could barely hear it over his jackhammering heartbeat.  

Suddenly very aware of the terrifying presence he cast, Bucky threw up his guise in a reflexive panic.  After a moment’s hesitation and a wincing groan, he extended the guise to cloak his left arm as well.  _Please don’t let him see what I’ve become!  I’d rather be a broken soldier than the monster they made me!_

Bucky slid down the wall, wrapping his right arm around his torso and began rocking back and forth.  Unblinking, he fixed his eyes on the wall across from him at the set of tally marks mocking him.  It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d made them, back when he thought he had even a modicum of understanding of his circumstance or a vestige of control over it.  He banged his head back against the wall, squeezing his eyes closed and desperately trying to will the day itself to fade into blackness, but knowing that there was no escaping this downward spiral into hell.   


  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awesome  
> photomanip gift art Titlecard by [ Ska-Whiteraven](http://ska-whiteraven.tumblr.com/) (Thank you SO MUCH!  Omg this is WICKED!)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> You can also  
> find it  
>   
> posted to their  
> [ DA Account Here](https://skawhiteraven.deviantart.com/art/The-Downward-Spiral-Fan-Art-703972178) (A  
> long  
> with an awesome progress animated gif!)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning, this one's dark, guys, of a bit of a different flavor than has been the par for this fic. Bucky is put into a really shitty situation and forced to do something terrible. More details/content warnings in the footnotes.

  
Bucky shivered in the cell, rocking back and forth against the unforgiving cement walls.  The scents of blood, sweat and gunpowder had caught in his nose, keeping him trapped in the gruesome scene even hours later.  Grisly images played on repeat behind his squeezed-closed eyelids like he were strapped into a viscerally gory horror double-feature.  He hugged his arm tighter around his waist, trying to steady his breathing so that his ragged gasps didn’t turn into full-fledged sobs.  How the hell had he wound up back here where it all began, and yet be so much worse off than before?  

This poor bastard locked in here with him might be the last survivor of the attack – the one he was forced to stop.  And now, _now_ – God only knew what was in store for either of them; the only thing Bucky could be sure of was that it was probably only going to get worse. 

Bucky’s guised arm was aching by the time his fellow prisoner began to rouse.  Phantom pins and needles fired through what seemed to be vacant air, though Bucky knew that it was only his sheer effort of will keeping it that way; more of an effort than it _should_ have been to maintain his guise.  Maybe it was because he rarely hid his arm; maybe it was the fact Bucky was low on energy after the fight, having taken enough wounds that not all of them had managed to heal.  Or maybe it was just plain fucking guilt eating away at him, like he didn’t deserve to be able to hide his features like physical manifestations of his crimes.   
  
He should have gone to check on the Marine earlier, seen to his wounds and helped him out like a fucking decent human being, but every time Bucky had made the decision to move he felt more tightly rooted to the concrete.  How could he touch him when the blood from the rest of his platoon was still all over his hand?  He wasn’t decent any more.  He wasn’t even human.   
  
“I’m sorry you wound up here,” Bucky croaked as the prisoner shifted on the floor, pressing a low moan into the concrete.  He wanted to apologize for so much more: for leaving the message that brought them here in the first place, for whatever Lukin had done to him, for failing his nation and his convictions, for being unable to stop himself when he’d slaughtered the other Marines… 

The man visibly winced as he took in his surroundings, startling and stuttering in an effort to sit up as Bucky spoke.  He failed, grabbing a deep wound in his side as he instead rolled sideways just enough to look over.  

“Wha?” he muttered out, blinking a few times.  “You American?” He wheezed out after a few stunted breaths.  
  
Bucky finally allowed himself to give the man a look-over, wincing at his many contusions and lacerations.  Deep bruising had settled over the Marine’s wide brows and a split ran through puffy, swollen lips.  Sticky blood stained his close-shorn dirty-brown hair and his uniform top appeared to have been haphazardly cut off of him, leaving a few tatters behind.  Lukin was brutal and effective with how he dealt out pain, though Bucky couldn’t help but wonder how long this man had held back giving him answers.  Not that he was in any position to blame him for relenting at any point in his interrogation.  

As Bucky made to respond he met his… hazel eyes.  Of course he would have hazel eyes.  Bucky’s eyes slid down away from the man’s face, unable to face the lingering ghost of the first man Hydra had ordered him to kill.  

Silence hung in the air just long enough to be uncomfortable when Bucky finally answered with “Yeah.  I was thrilled when I heard you boys had found this place.  I-”  Bucky’s throat knotted on him, making his voice catch, “I wish it had ended differently.”  
  
“What is this place?” the Marine asked, hoisting himself into a sitting position and leaning against the stone wall.

Bucky gestured one-armed to the bleak cell around them with the corners of his mouth driving furrows into his cheeks.  “Welcome to fucking hell.  Which is in Siberia, apparently.  Who knew?”  And who knew that he could still manage to keep the mask of his old self in place enough to crack a joke when he was barely keeping it together.  He leaned hard back against the stone wall.  “But you probably knew that part.  We’re in a Hydra prison cell four stories underground.”

He looked over the cell, his face ashen.  “Hell indeed…” he groaned.  “First Lieutenant Anthony Prewitt, USMC,” he said, weakly holding out his hand.  
   
Bucky hesitated for only a moment before reaching over to clasp the man’s hand with his own, still bloody one.  “Wish I could say it was nice to meet you Lieutenant.  Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, US Army.  Or, at least I was.”  His face twisted wryly.  

“Well, you know what they say about miserly loving company,” Prewitt began, then paused suddenly.  He shook his head, eyes going distant and brow furrowing, “Wait… Sergeant Barnes?”  The Lieutenant was obviously still sluggish from his ordeal, but his voice caught in disbelief.  “Like the Howling Commando?  It can’t be, no…” He looked him over, his eyes narrowing over his face.

Bucky craned his neck up, staring at the concrete ceiling.  Even after not having been here for months, he still could have traced the spiderweb pattern of cracks with his eyes closed.  His chest tightened.  How long had it been since he’d heard someone else say his real name?  

“One and the same.”  He tilted his head to the side with a pantomimed smile as if in apology.  

Prewitt's eyes widened, “You’re supposed to be dead…” he breathed, “You died in the war.”  He couldn’t have possibly gotten any paler, though the hollow, horrified expression on his face telegraphed his sinking realization to Bucky.  “Have you been here since….?” He couldn’t even bring himself to finish his sentence.

Bucky couldn’t make himself meet Prewitt’s eyes for long; they slid off of him and over to the gouges in the wall.  “Yeah, I figured that’s what people must’ve thought by now.”  He had surmised as much, but that still didn’t stop his lungs from feeling trapped in his ribcage.  It would have been better for everyone if he _had_ died.  Certainly for Prewitt and his men.  “Yeah.  The Soviets found me half-dead in the snow.  I think I was out of it for a long time, but they’ve had me ever since Fourty-Five.”  

Bucky swallowed, closing his eyes and refusing to look when he made himself ask, “Is it true that Ste- that Captain America died in a plane crash?”

Prewitt answered him with a small, grave nod, banishing the last figment of hope that had still clung to somewhere in Bucky’s soul. “He saved the world,” he added quickly.  “It must have been something to know him, really.  God, even to meet you, Sgt. Barnes, is an honor.  Even under these conditions y-” he was cut off by a hacking cough, wet-sounding, his hand coming back with a fine spattering of blood.  Best case scenario, it was a simple punctured lung.  Worse case…well, drowning in his own blood wasn’t the worst way to go in a place like this.  Bucky almost envied him. 

Bucky shook his head harshly, “It is not an honor to meet me, not anymore, pal.  Under different circumstances, sure, even to a jarhead like you.”  Bucky tried to summon an impersonation of his old charm, but it sounded fake to his ears, like knowing he was butchering an accent.   
  
After a moment of silence, Bucky found his voice again.  “Steve, though… yeah.  He was the real deal.  I’d give my left arm to see him again…”  His face screwed into a bitter flinch.  “I’d hoped his death had been a lie.  But I guess I should’ve known Steve would go out like that – giving it his all till there was nothing left to give…”  _Fuck_.  _If I hadn’t fallen, if I’d been with him there at the end with the Red Skull – would it have ended differently?  Would Steve be alive instead of me?_  
  
_C’mon, Barnes.  Pull your head out of the dirt.  Don’t fucking cry.  Good job – you risked it all on this plan and LOST.  This is bad, this is really fucking bad, but you don’t know what’s gonna happen next._   _Nope, scratch that – that’s worse._

_So now what?  What options do I even have left?_

He turned back to his cellmate.  “I don’t suppose that there was another, larger force poised to attack, huh?”

Prewitt’s defeated expression gave Bucky the only answer he needed.  “We didn’t have much to go on, and all intelligence we gathered indicated we should have had plenty of man power.”  He shook his head, a hand raking through his bloodied hair, “But something happened, I don’t know exactly what.  I heard screams and some gibberish over the comms but… they overtook so fast… so _damned_ fast…”  
  
_He_ happened.  Saliva pooled in Bucky’s mouth and he could taste a hint of bile on his breath.  The Marines’ screams echoed in his ears, the sticky blood on his hand - and splashed over his jacket – hadn’t even completely dried yet. Closing his eyes didn’t help, just gave his mind a blank canvas to project the horrific attack against and made his center of balance spin.  
  
“Shit,” Bucky breathed.  “This place is a hell of a lot more than it looks like.  I’ve been trying for… I don’t even know how long to get away, but it’s been FUBAR from the start.  They’re screwing around with some real spooky shit here.”

Bucky’s stomach squirmed at his deception.  His mask felt so fucking fragile right now, but he had to – he _had_ to cling to it.  He couldn’t face what he did - what he _was_ – and see that reflect in someone else’s eyes.  Lukin’s threat still rang in his ears; _It’s only a matter of time_.  The half dozen slices and half-healed gunshots had begun to throb, as if he were gradually coming off anesthesia.  They weren’t bleeding any more, and any bullets had already been pushed out of him, but they weren’t healing either.  

“Weapons?” Prewitt ventured, snagging his attention back.  “Christ, how bad is it, Barnes?  If they can tear through our unit like this, what kind of scale are we looking at here?”  

“When I was in the 107th and we first encountered Hydra, they tore our unit to pieces as well with these fucking energy weapons.”  Bucky heard himself ramble hollowly.  “We didn’t even begin to know how to fight it then, either. What they got here – it ain’t the same, but it’s just as bad.”  _Worse, maybe_.  “So unless you got a magic button to get us both the hell out of here then I’m afraid we’re both fucked.”  Bucky closed his eyes with a wince at his own choice of words.  Because of course, of course his mind was going _there_. 

Prewitt licked his chapped lips, his eyes moving over Bucky.  “Is that what happened to your arm?”  

Bucky shifted on the hard concrete.  “The arm was gone by the time I woke up.  I think I mangled it in the fall.”  

“Well,” Prewitt said with a heavy sigh, “it’s been a pleasure serving with you, even for this short time.”

Bucky threw Prewitt as sharp a salute as he could muster all things considered.  “An honor, Lieutenant Prewitt.  Honestly, I haven’t seen a friendly face in way too fucking long.”

The fresh blood seemed have caught Prewitt’s attention; his eyes narrowed slightly.  He motioned weakly to the blood on his clothes.  “Did you try to escape during the ruckus?”

“Yeah.  I tried to get away, but didn’t get very far.”  It wasn’t a lie, not really.  “I dreamt a long time about the cavalry coming and shutting this place down – but I never would have wanted it if I’d known it would have ended like this.  For what it’s worth, Lieutenant, I’m sorry you and the rest of your unit ever came to Siberia.”  _I’m sorry I left that message.  I’m so fucking sorry.  This is my fault._   

“Well, at least one of these fucking crazy bastards had the right idea,” he said, lowering his voice.  He scooted closer, motioning for Bucky to lean in and meet him half way.  As his breath fell on his ear, Bucky became very aware of their proximity.  The Marine’s tattered shirt exposing his lean muscles and unique scent.  The strong cut of his jaw and the way his tongue moved in his mouth as he prepared to speak.  A part of Bucky’s lizard brain wanted to press his face closer to his neck and- 

“Someone left a message,” Prewitt said lowly.  There was no point if they were overheard or not, he had already given up this information anyway.  “Any idea if we have any friends in here, eh?"  
  
Bucky’s heart sunk all the way to his knees.  “You’re looking at the only friend in here you’ve got.”  Bucky tried to swallow down his shame; he couldn’t voice out loud that he’d performed a mission for Hydra.  Prewitt couldn’t understand.  “They’re rat bastards, every last one of them, no matter what they say, no matter what they promise.”

“Fuck,” he breathed.  “Why lead us here, then?  A trap?”  He shook his head, but didn’t move back away from Bucky.

 _I led them all into a fucking trap._   He let the conversation stall with a single-shoulder shrug – if he was really the prisoner he was pretending to be, there would be no way he would have had an answer for that question, anyway.  Guilt filled him like a bubble, making his chest feel tight.  If he couldn’t even admit what he did to this other American seeing him here imprisoned, then how the hell could he ever go home and face the music?  

His mind was eager to provide a distraction, reminding him of the heat radiating off of the Lieutenant in the cold, dank cell. _We could keep each other warm.  Strip off our clothes and press together.  Maybe I can keep his mind off of-_

“The Soviets have got to know that this location’s been compromised,” Bucky reasoned, trying to keep his thoughts focused on strategy and not the heady thoughts winding through his mind.  “I don’t know what they’re planning, but this strike had to shake them up.”  Moving an entire base would be expensive and complicated, especially if they were in a hurry.  Not exactly circumstances that they’d want to worry about a prisoner.  There had to be a reason that Lukin had left him alive, right?  “I don’t suppose you have any other intel that might help us out here?”

“No,” Prewitt admitted with a sigh.  “I just go where they point me.”

Figured.  Worth asking at the very least, though.  

Prewitt hissed between his teeth as he took a breath, and looked down at the splotchy spread of blue and back that was forming where he had taken a particularly hard kick to the ribs.  “Wanna help me get this wrapped up?” he said, his hands shakily pulling at the hems of his BDUs, trying to tear them.

Bucky huffed a sigh and forced a helpful smile onto his face.  _I can do this._ “Yeah, of course. I’m no medic, but I can at least try to get those bound for you.  Here – let me.”  He reached down and ripped a long spiraled strip from the bottom of his own pants one-handed.  He’d spent a month of hard training earning those pants, but he’d do it again in a heartbeat to help his fellow serviceman… and being able to pretend for a moment that things were only as bad as two American prisoners sharing a cell.  He scooted a little closer to get a better look at Prewitt’s injuries.  In addition to the bruising to the ribs, a gash had begun to ooze again lower on the man’s side. 

“Guess we better look after each other until help comes,” Prewitt said, the conviction gone from his voice.  
  
Bucky couldn’t summon the spirit to answer his false optimism.  Help had already come, and look how far it had gotten them.  “Here, hold this end,” Bucky instructed as he started to wind the strip of cloth around him, using his teeth for the wrap-around.

The marine’s breath landed heavy on Bucky’s neck as he tended to his wounds, seeming perfectly happy to let him take the lead.  He pressed the end of the tattered cloth to the bleeding wound with a hiss, but grit his teeth and exhaled through his nose as Bucky did his work.  Goosebumps raised along the back of his neck, and his mind’s eye presented him a very different position that could result in the man’s face pressed against the back of his neck… his hands squeezing his hips and his cock-

“So where you from, Lieutenant?” Bucky asked abruptly, distracting himself from his idle thoughts and hopefully helping get the Marine’s mind off of his injuries.  

Prewitt swallowed thickly, as if he was being dragged out of a thought.  “B…Beltsville,” he managed.  “Beltsville, Maryland.”  Though covered in sweat and blood already, a small sheen, new and heady, was forming over his tanned skin where Bucky was working.  _Bucky wanted to lick that sweat off of him_.  “Not quite Brooklyn, but it’s a good place…”

Bucky looked up to him with a raised brow – it was still odd, people knowing about him that he’d never even met before.  “Sounds like a nice place, even though I can’t say I’ve ever made it to Maryland.  France, Italy, England, Germany, half a dozen other European countries and now fucking _Siberia_ , but aside from Basic in Wisconsin, never even made it out of New York.”  Bucky swallowed, trying to keep his thoughts on the conversation and not the new, stirring scents.   
  
“Anywhere else I’m not seeing that you need patching?”  
  
“To be honest, Sergeant, I can’t really tell.  I feel like one giant kicked ass from my eyebrows to my toes,” he admitted.  He smoothed his hands down his legs, wincing.  “Shin’s probably broken,” he said matter-of-factly.  “Anything we can use for a splint?”  
  
“We can figure something out,” Bucky said as he got up to grab the waste bucket, trying to breathe fresh air and not Prewitt’s musky scent, but the cell was pretty fucking small.  He smashed the bucket against the wall, several planks of wood splintering at the impact site, but a few others remained intact, hanging haphazardly onto the metal banding.  Bucky pried one of them loose.  “Hope you don’t need to take a shit anytime soon,” he winced as he took a seat by Prewitt’s leg.

“Fuck,” Prewitt murmured to himself, voice strained as he tried and failed once again to get a good grip on the leg of his pants to rip it.  

“Don’t worry about that, here, mine are already fucked up.”  Bucky tore the other leg of his pants.  This was the very least he could fucking do.  “Lukin and his boys really did a number on you.  They know exactly where to hit,” Bucky sympathized as he worked. 

“Lukin, huh?” Prewitt murmured, “You’ve had your own run-ins with him?”

“Yeah, you could say that.  I’ve run into his fist, his boots, his fucking cattle-prod,” _his cock…_   And of course, Bucky’s own cock decided to give a twitch of interest at that memory.  Being seated between Lieutenant Prewitt’s legs were also not helping matters in the fucking slightest.   
  
_It’s only a matter of time.  A fucking heat’s coming on and there’s nothing I can do to stop - Shut UP shut UP!_ Bucky gave his head a hard shake.  _FOCUS.  Think of something else.  ANYTHING else._   Come to think of it, for as much as Lukin and his goons had beaten and tortured him, he couldn’t remember since his changes finished winding up with any broken bones… 

“Thanks,” Prewitt muttered, though Bucky couldn’t help but noticed that the Marine’s eyes had fluttered down towards the growing erection in his pants.  If the Lieutenant had noticed, however, he didn’t say anything aside from perhaps a slightly sharpened intake of breath.  “M…monsters,” he grunted in agreement as Bucky helped with the make-shift splint.

Bucky couldn’t help the flinch that passed his face at the word.  _He doesn’t mean me – but he would… he will…_  
  
Bucky’s hand shook a little as he worked, and he became acutely aware of just how close his face was to the man’s crotch when he leaned down to take the strip of cloth in his teeth to help tie off the knot.  He couldn’t help but glance up at the Lieutenant’s bulge.  “Th-there ya go.” 

The more the turbulent, erotic thoughts invaded his thoughts, the more difficult it grew to keep his grip on his guise, like trying to hold onto a handful of sand as the tide rolled in.  What little energy he had left was being stretched so thin; he couldn’t keep this up.  The phantom pains in his arm were growing distracting, and the energy collecting at the base of where his horns and tail should be felt like it was _pressing_ against its restraints.  He was just so… _hungry_ … so tired.  Sweat beaded over his skin that had gone from cold and clammy to uncomfortably warm.  

“You don’t look so good yourself….” Prewitt’s voice jerked Bucky from his thoughts.  He was looking down at Bucky’s position in his lap, and then, seemed just as surprised as Bucky when his hand moved to touch Bucky surprisingly gently on his cheek, tilting his head up to him before letting his hand slide back into the sweat in Bucky’s hair.

Bucky’s heart stuttered, his tongue darting out to wet his cracked lips, but he didn’t pull away.  Instead he found himself leaning his head into the gentle touch, sliding his eyes closed with a look of consternation. This felt nice – too nice.  It made it suddenly so fucking clear how different a real, genuine human connection was to Fairbanks’s impersonation thereof.  It felt different, it _smelled_ different.  So nice…  
  
He shouldn’t. He was having an effect on Prewitt.  There was no other way the Marine would be doing this.  Here.  _Now_.  
  
But he couldn’t pull away.  

“Yeah, sorry – I’m probably not living up to the silver screen versions you’ve probably seen right about now.”  He huffed, trying to make light of it, but his voice caught halfway through.  A thick haze of arousal was rapidly filling the small cell, cloying its way into their clothes, their hair, their mouths… 

Prewitt smacked, audibly trying to lubricate a cotton-dry mouth.  “Hollywood ain’t real,” he said after a moment, and though he tried to laugh it off as a joke, it came out low and breathy.  His hands slid further back, gently pushing the long hair out of Bucky’s face and let his thumb gently move up and down in a subtle stoke against his cheek.

The words tumbled from his mouth as naturally as they did when he was picking up dames at the dance halls in Brooklyn, “But I am.” Bucky exhaled, letting his full lips catch the man’s thumb on a downward stroke.  His body ached for him, his erection having risen to full mast in what was left of his combat pants, now torn down to shorts.  The heat radiating off Prewitt’s body upticked suddenly as his thumb touched the soft cushion of Bucky’s lips.  His breath left his body in a shuddering exhale, and he hooked his fingers onto Bucky’s jaw as his thumb plunged deeper into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth.  Prewitt’s gentle touch eased his defenses, his scent filling him like strong liquor.  He was so sore, so hungry, so _lonely_.  

Bucky’s grasp on his guise guttered like a lantern running out of oil.   
  
A strange noise escaped Prewitt’s lips as gooseflesh immediately prickled over his skin.  The cell swam like Bucky was drunk, but he wasn’t intoxicated enough not to notice the sudden acrid scent of fear punctuating the drowsy smell of arousal.  More quickly than he’d yet been able to move, Prewitt flattened his back against the wall.  “What the hell?”  His voice shook, but the sharpness of his words began to falter before he managed to finish the sentence.  

He knew what had happened before he even looked down and saw the gnarled arm.  Already, he was aching, hard, and so fucking _hungry_ that it was difficult to summon much wherewithal to give a damn about his appearance.  The lust, the hunger; it was miles and away better than the guilt that had saddled him since the alarm claxons first started to scream.   It was numbing, chasing away the many shades of disgrace weighing him down like chains. Still, it wasn’t quite enough  - not yet – to banish the horrific situation he’d found himself in.  That look of horror painted on Prewitt’s face– right there – was the reaction that he’d been terrified of since he first grew a damn tail.   
  
_You can never go home again…._

“I’m sorry,” Bucky wheedled, “They… this is what they’ve done to me… I don’t…. didn’t want…”  He couldn’t take his eyes away from the obvious erection still tenting the Marine’s BDUs, unfazed by the man’s shock. 

“What… what’s happening?”  His voice was shaky, still breathy from lust but sped up by fear.  He swallowed thickly, back still pressed hard against the back wall but his eyes following Bucky’s gaze to his lap.  They widened suddenly, shooting back up and locking with Bucky’s. 

“I could help you with that,” the words spilled unbidden from Bucky’s lips.  

“Oh God….” Prewitt groaned with an unsettling mix of arousal and terror.  “ _Oh_ …”

Bucky didn’t know if his pheromones softening the Lieutenant’s resolve made this better or worse.  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself, but the more he tried to pull his head out of the viscous lust, the more nauseated he grew by the inescapable certainty of where this was headed.  He was a monster.  Prewitt could see it plainly now, his guilt laid bare before him in the form of his demonic visage. 

His tail moved sinuously back and forth, transferring the oscillating motion to his hips, his cock pressing against the tightening fabric of his pants.  “I’m sorry,” He breathed again, “I really don’t want to hurt you, just… make you feel good – make us both feel good.”  He prowled forward on hands and knees, until his breath fell hot on Prewitt’s lap.  

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he exclaimed with less anger than he intended.  “You’re a… you’re a…” He swallowed thickly, perspiration glinting in the flickering light.  He went to twist away from Bucky, stopping abruptly with a wince – whether that was from the pain of the injuries or the pulsing, ignored erection in his pants was impossible to determine.

“I wish I were,” Bucky huffed, dragging his eyes away.  _God what the fuck is wrong with me?!_   _Lukin is right, Christ, I can never go home again._ “I don’t want this either, Lieutenant.  I’m what they fucking _made_ me,” he hissed between gritted fangs.   
  
_Fight it!_   _Fuck me, oh fuck me please.  So hungry.  Can’t do this, but it smells so good, right there – he’s right there.  He wants this you can smell it._ The plates in his arm shifted as he gripped the concrete, back rigid.  Sweat beaded and dripped over his back and forehead, unconsciously releasing more pheromones into the air.  Bucky struggled to pull himself together, but only barely managed to tread the turgid water.  

"Wh...what do you want from me...?" Prewitt’s voice wavered like he was about to cry, his aroma embroiled with the swirling scents of lust, pain and confusion.  His erection had to be bordering on painful with the way it was twitching in his pants, leaking a spreading stain across his lap as if beckoning him closer.  

Bucky’s own heat caught in his nose, intermingling with Prewitt’s beguiling fragrance, and finally edged out the lingering stench of blood and gunpowder.  His body drifted forward, caught on the odor like a current, until he could have flicked out his tongue and tasted the moisture darkening the front of the Lieutenant’s BDUs.  

Which he really, _really_ wanted to do.

 “I want to help you escape, help you… _feel better_ … or,” he panted, words spilling automatically from his mouth, “at least feel good.  I can make it feel so good for you… get your head out of here, at least for a little bit…”  His rapidly expanding pupils traveled back upwards to hold Prewitt’s gaze, his words weaving temptation as if it were his native tongue. 

“N- _oh_ …”  Prewitt’s voice wavered, barely audible over the rustling of fabric as his body finally relaxed, sliding loosely down the wall.

The last iotas of Bucky Barnes trickled away like the sands in an hourglass.  God help him – because he couldn’t help himself.   
  
Bucky’s claws caught the fine threads attaching the buttons to his fly, popping them free one after another until only the gauzy material of his drawers contained his erection.  Each pounding throb of Prewitt’s cock seemed to send ripples through the air, reverberating in Bucky’s nose and in his mind.  He drowned in the musky, heady scent of it, and the next thing he knew, his tongue was lathing out, pressing against the damp spot of his briefs that stretched tight over the head of his cock.  

A strangled cry escaped the Marine’s lips and his hands went to push him away – but instead of grabbing a handful of hair, his grip landed on the thick, spiraling horns.  His fingers spasmed, reflexively gripping them, and jerked back just enough to pull Bucky’s lips from his cock and lock eyes.  The jolt of humiliation jerked Bucky back to clarity from the murky depths of madness.  There, reflected in the Lieutenant’s hazel eyes was the evidence of how far he’d fallen.  Gone was the war hero.  All that remained reflected back at him was a monster: panting in vile need with black, soulless eyes.  
  
Unfortunately, his fleeting gasp of sanity was short lived.  The grip on his horns went straight to his cock; his blood was on fire and there was only thing that could quench the flames.  The heat seized him and forcibly dragged him back under.  The pad of his thumb began to rub a small circle through the cloth at the base of Prewitt’s cock.   
  
The Marine’s mouth fell open, his pupils blowing wide.  Another jerk of his horns and Bucky’s face was forcefully shoved down into his crotch, crushing his throbbing erection against Bucky’s face.

And –“Oh – _fuck yes_ ,” Bucky moaned into the cloth-wrapped-shaft, mouthing and licking at the hard length with increasing gusto and need.  He caught the waistband of the drawers under a thumb and drew it downwards until the Marine's cock popped free right into Bucky’s waiting, swollen lips.  His tongue stretched longer, wrapping around the shaft, squeezing and helping guide it at just the perfect angle into his mouth.  His mouth stuffed full, Bucky just crooned a wordless hum around him, losing himself to the all-consuming need.   
  
Any words Prewitt attempted to utter dissolved into strangled, gasping moans by the time they poured from his lips.  His grip remained firm on his horns, and as soon as Bucky had found his rhythm, Prewitt began to guide his head up and down, pressing himself deeper with tangible eagerness.  

Bucky’s muscles relaxed, the tension of resistance giving way to a starved passion, taking him deeper with each bob of his head.  His throat loosened, letting the cock slide all the way in as Bucky took his breaths through his nose with a practiced ease.  Each swallow squeezed tight along his glans and shaft, and each wash of pleasure reverberated through him as if Bucky had connected into Prewitt’s nervous system.  Bucky’s own cock throbbed in tandem with Prewitt’s, pressing hard against his fly.  Bucky’s left hand gripped the outside of his thigh tightly enough to hold him steady, but not enough to hurt as he slipped his right hand underneath his balls, cradling and palpating them as his nose buried into his thick tangle of pubic hair.   
  
By now, any sign of Prewitt’s resistance was a distant memory.  His knees fell open to allow Bucky better access, hips bucking with adolescent neediness.  His thighs already began to shake as he eagerly encouraged Bucky’s exploration.  He only surfaced from the cloud of bliss occasionally when one of his wounds twinged with a sudden movement, just long enough to bite off a yelp.  Then his cock spurted precome into Bucky’s mouth and the paradoxical pleasure-pain combination pulled him back under, his head lolling and eyes rolling back in their sockets.   
  
Bucky had been subsumed into his pervasive succubus nature; what rational mind still existed had been compartmentalized away.  He never felt further from human than when he allowed these instincts take hold of him – feeling as much a part of his partner as himself, keying into their ecstasy.  He hunted Prewitt’s orgasm like a hound on a scent, chasing each filter of pleasure and bearing down on whatever ministrations or undulations made Prewitt’s toes curl or sent electric currents of lust sizzling through their bodies.  He was a feral beast saddled with one purpose; a haze of heat and lust given form.   
  
The moment seemed to stretch on forever; Prewitt’s mouth lolled open and his grip momentarily relaxed on his horns as his whole body began to shake.  A guttural, animal-like moan bubbled up from the pit of his stomach before his whole body broke out into intense convulsions.  His hands pushed violently down on Bucky’s horns as he came, the moan wailing out into a full-fledge scream as his orgasm washed over his body and into Bucky’s.  His lips sealed over him as the convulsions passed into him, lighting up his neurons as he followed him over the edge.  Rapture filled Bucky like a chalice.  He drank down every rapturous drop like he was taking communion, taking Prewitt's orgasm into himself in a searing rush of pleasure.  

The bestial instinct wanted to bear down and take everything he had to give, but a panicked voice shouted from a corner of his mind: the Marine was injured; he couldn’t drain him to the point of exhaustion without risking his health more than he already had.  Bucky pulled off of him with a shuddering gasp, his own cock still twitching and pumping come into his drawers.  The shakes didn’t pass even as he leaned back on his knees, overstimulated and gulping air as the warmth flooded into his partially-healed injuries.  

As soon as Bucky backed away, Prewitt collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air as he clawed weakly at the ground, dragging himself away.  “What…what did you do to me?” he asked in a panicked, strained screech, all shred of bravado gone from his voice.  His eyes were wide and oddly hollow, chilled to his bones in horror.  
  
Prewitt’s voice was a splash of icy water, shame and disgust redoubling after the effects of his heat drained away. “Oh god,” Bucky said, a wave of nausea crashing over him.  The pleasant tingle of his knitting injuries did nothing to make him feel better.  He’d never lost control like that around someone who didn’t want it.  It didn’t matter that Hydra had locked them up together, there was no scrubbing this stain off of his conscience.  Lukin was right, how in the fuck could he ever go home with what they’d done to him?   
  
He couldn’t meet Prewitt’s eyes, “I’m so sorry,” the words felt grievously inadequate.  His hands crept up to his head, gripping his hair.  “I couldn’t help it.  I didn’t want to – to make you-”  
  
“You’re a monster!” he screamed hysterically.  

Prewitt would have done less damage had he shot him.  As Bucky fumbled for some kind of response, Prewitt’s words tumbled over each other, wide eyes darting wildly around the cell as if he here looking for something.  

“Oh god, is this going to happen to me?”  Bucky had seen this a few times in brutal battlefields: he was rapidly falling into a panic attack.  The moment he made an aborted gesture towards him to help, Prewitt’s wide, fearful eyes turned back on him, his breathing growing shallow and irregular.   

Bucky skittered backwards until his back collided with the far wall, tail wrapping tightly around his legs.  “I don’t know,” he whispered hoarsely, then quickly followed up with, “I doubt it.”  The shakes took hold of Bucky's frame.  “I’m so fucking sorry,” he said digging his fists into his hair and pulling hard.  

The Marine began to yank at the bandages Bucky had previously helped him set.  His hands, however, slick with blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids made it a fruitless endeavor; causing tears of frustration to track down his face.  
  
“H-hey, wait – what the hell are you doing?” Bucky forced himself out of his head.  “Fuck – you’re still hurt.”  This was a mess, this was a fucking mess and it was all his damn fault.  _God_.  He had to help, had to – he couldn’t make this _right_ – but he had to do _something._

“No no nonononono…” Prewitt stuttered as Bucky approached him.  But then suddenly, he swung wildly at him, his punch weak and haphazard, but squarely aimed at Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky didn’t even try to move.  He deserved it.  He deserved it and so much fucking more.  But the punch fell too light – barely a jostle between his enhanced resistance and Prewitt’s weakened state.  The acid of regret and self-hated swirled turbulently in his chest.  There was no way to make this right.  No way to dig himself out of the hole he’d been pushed into.  He wanted to hurt.  No.  That would just lead to another fucking heat; he wanted to die.  

“Fight back, dammit!” Prewitt screamed, landing a left on his jaw with slightly more gusto than the first.  But before the third hit could land, Prewitt crumpled, covering his face and sinking to the ground with a sob.  
  
Bucky knelt over him, quivering for a moment as the Marine dissolved into body-wracking sobs.  He knew how he felt.  

“I don’t want to fight you.  I don’t want – _didn’t_ want to hurt you.”  He paused, sick to his stomach.  “I wish you _could_ kill me,” Bucky admitted in barely a whisper.  

Suddenly, the heavy clink of the iron lock in the far door shattered the moment and Bucky spun, seething with rage as Lukin and two unfamiliar guards strode into the room.  Bucky wanted to tear the smug smile off of Lukin’s face with his claws.  

Bucky choked on a sob with burning eyes and scrambled to his feet, flinging himself back towards the bars and turning his rage and self-loathing on the men who fucking deserved it.  “YOU FUCKERS!”  He shouted, scraping his throat raw with the intensity.  “You SADISTIC FUCKING NAZIS!”  

“Now now,” Lukin said impassively, striding across the room with his hands held behind his back, “you have no one to blame for the effects of that vile need of yours but yourself.  What did you think would happen when you left the coordinates for your precious allies to find?”  
  
“ _What_?” Prewitt breathed, sounding for all the world like he just got punched in the stomach.  Fucking Lukin was speaking English on purpose.  

“Oh, you didn’t even tell him?” he chuckled humorlessly.  “Too ashamed of what your actions set into motion?  Did you really think that they would cart you home, the missing war hero found once more?  And that everything would be okay for you?  Did you not think that this would happen, sooner or later?  You would get hurt, get hungry and lose your control.  You would take what you need even from someone who did not wish to give it – like you just did.”

Bucky refused to answer, staring pointedly down at his boots.  

“And now, well, after today-”

 _No!_ Bucky jerked his head up, a snarl on his lips and hands balling into fists at his side.  “Don’t you-”

Lukin spoke over him, refusing to let him finish.  “I do not think your government would take kindly to you after the men you slaughtered here today.  I have tapes; plenty of evidence now that would ensure if you ever walk on your shores again, you would be killed for the traitor that you are.  Your friends, your family, everyone who remembered you as a hero – would know the monster you became.”  

A strangled noise tore from Prewitt’s throat; Bucky couldn’t bear to look back to see the Lieutenant’s expression.

“Just fucking kill me,” Bucky roared, “Let him go.  They already know where this base is – he’s no threat to you!”

This time, Lukin’s laugh resonated with surprise and mirth.  “No.  I do not think so.  You are too valuable, and he – well –he knows far too much.  He _has_ seen your face, after all.  And I am not in the business of taking foolish risks.  Kill him, demon.  That is an order.”  Lukin gave the command as placidly as if he were ordering a meal.

The room spun and his bowels turned to icewater.  This was a fucking nightmare.  Every time he thought he woke up he found himself caught in another, more horrifying, layer of the dream.  There was no escape.  _No escape._   And suddenly Prewitt was in front of him, only a few inches away.  He’d walked there; he didn’t even remember moving.  _God, please stop me!  Strike me down!  I’m sorry!_

“No!  Nono!” Prewitt threw his hands up in a panicked state of submission.  “I won’t say anything!  _Anything, Barnes_!”

“I’m so sorry- I – I can’t help – I can’t stop - l… I’ll make it quick – painless.” Bucky tripped over his words even as he gripped him by the chin and top of his head.  

All of the fear dissolved from Prewitt’s features in his last moments, converting into blatant contempt.  Prewitt spat in his face, “Thank God Captain America died before finding out what happened to you.  To think, he called _you_ a hero."

Bucky’s arms wrenched, snapping Prewitt’s neck.  
  
A sob tore from his throat as he sank to his knees, still clutching Prewitt’s lifeless body.  He pressed his face into his short-cropped hair.  _I don’t deserve to even fucking touch him.  I did this.  This is my fault.  I brought him here. I killed his company.  I raped him.  I killed him._

He tore his face away, heaving in a wet, soggy gasp.  Even in death, accusation froze in Prewitt’s hazel eyes, refusing to release Bucky.  He couldn’t tear his eyes away; he didn’t deserve to shield himself.   
  
< “Come now, after all that, you have to be a bit relieved that he’s gone, right?  After what he’d seen? After what you had put him through?  Tsk.  You are both better off. ”> Lukin huffed with a sneer.   
  
“No” Bucky choked, tasting acid.  “Fuck you,” he seethed, low and dangerous.  “You’re more of a monster than I am if you think I’m fucking _happy_ he’s dead.”

< “Fairbanks was grievously mistaken in affording you the latitude he did.”>  A set of glyphed manacles fell beside Bucky with a clatter.  <“Put those on.  That’s an order.”>

Bucky set his jaw, fixing Lukin with an unwavering glare as he secured the cuffs around his wrists with every mote of his hatred translated into clipped, forceful movements.  The moment the second cuff clicked into place around his wrist, all of the strength ebbed out of his limbs, but it did nothing to assuage his rage and boiling shame.

< “We’ll figure out what to do with you next after-”> Lukin was interrupted by a clattering down the hallway.  A moment later, Fairbanks, red in the face, burst into the cellar. 

He’d fucked up; he’d fucked up _so_ _bad_ that Bucky’s chest tightened with hope when he saw Fairbanks.   
  
“What in the world- Lukin!  Why did no one tell me the attack was over?  I had to hear it second-hand from _Sokolov_ for God’s sakes!”  He stopped, blinking as he looked over to Bucky, eyes sweeping over his bloodied clothing, the manacles, and landing on the body in front of him.  
  
“Fairbanks!  Christ, get me the _hell out of here!”_ Bucky cried frantically.   
  
“What is he doing down here?  Who is that?”  Fairbanks wheeled on Lukin, striding up to him as he blotted at his forehead with a handkerchief.  

Lukin said nothing, his face a mask of disinterest.

“Do you hear me?  This is the last straw, Lukin.  Keeping me deliberately in the dark?  Doing – whatever the hell it is you were doing with him down here?  These were not your decisions to make!”  He jabbed a finger furiously into Lukin’s wall of a chest before shoving past him.  “That’s it.  This was a debacle – and I will make sure that the other heads know about how your influence cocked this up.  I’m taking him back with me to the US.”  He rustled into his satchel, pulling out a set of keys and going for the lock at the gate.  “I should have done this a long time ago.  I’ll speak with Zola myself, I’ll-”

Lukin, without so much as a change of expression, withdrew a handgun from its holster and fired point-blank into the back of Fairbanks’s head before the “Look out-!” even made it past Bucky’s tongue.

A spray of hot blood splattered across Bucky’s face the same moment the pain hit.  

For a second, Bucky thought he had been shot as well – the bullet passing through Fairbanks and exploding into his shoulder.  Then it got worse.  Agony exploded like dynamite from his shoulder, lighting up every nerve of his body and burning it away like white-hot magnesium.  A monstrous shriek assaulted his eardrums as it felt like some _part_ of him was being torn out of him with jagged claws.  The floor smacked the side of his face and he burned hot, then painfully cold as something vital drained out of him.  But the worst of all was the vice that seized his head, bearing down on him with the crushing weight of an overwhelming sense of failure.  

When the agony finally began to ebb away, Bucky lay rigid on the ground in a pool of his own piss and vomit, his muscles locked in a spasm and his jaw clenched painfully tight.  Nauseous disorientation lingered like a hangover before the strangest sensation of disconnectedness washed over him, as if he’d just fallen off the side of the world.    

Gradually, the roar of the ocean resolved into echoed voices and clicking boots as he forced his eyes to slowly blink closed… open… closed.  Muscle by muscle gradually unlocked, aching and stiff, until he spilled boneless onto the floor with a long blowing exhale. 

<“…the athame…”>

Bucky rolled to his side like a barrel half full of sloshing liquid, and found himself eye-to-eye with Fairbanks, or at least what was left of him.  Half of his face had been blown away; one of his eye sockets looked like a drill had been taken to it, chunky bits of blood and brain matter slowly oozed out onto the concrete, steaming in the frigid room.  

Bucky’s blood froze and a sob startled out of his throat.  He hated the man.  Had he been given the chance, he _knew_ he would have personally torn his throat out without a shred of hesitation.  But as the deadened eye of his corpse fixed him with a silent, judgmental stare, the finality of his predicament assaulted Bucky.  Fairbanks had been undeniably manipulative, slimy, and abhorrent, but he had always been better than Lukin.  While he had been Hydra, and deeply unsettling, Fairbanks had also been _kind_.  He had offered him comforts, food, warmth, and shelter.  He’d offered Bucky _opportunity;_ an easy way _._ And while Bucky never regretted – and still didn’t!- his decision, the fact that that door was now closed for good left him reeling with a sense of vertigo.  Without Fairbanks, there was nowhere to go but down.  

As Fairbanks’s corpse lay on the concrete, his face drooping until it more resembled a _thing_ than the person it had been just minutes ago, the spell holding Bucky’s gaze finally released him.  His eyes drifted upwards, attaching to Lukin who was flipping through the red-covered book as one of the guards furiously rifled through Fairbanks’s satchel.   A half dozen other guards had collected near the back of the room.  Fairbanks never would have locked him in the cell with Prewitt, forcing him to assault him only to kill him afterwards.  Bucky set his jaw; hatred tinged with the unsettling flavor of vengeance collecting in his stomach.  If only he could- 

He blinked.  Fairbanks was _dead_.  Bucky concentrated, seeking out that invisible connection that had tied him to his master, forcing him to bow to his will.  His heart stuttered when he found _nothing_.  That strange feeling of disconnect ebbing through him?  That was fucking _freedom_.  

With a massive surge of effort, he lurched back to his knees.  He nearly overshot, spilling back over onto his other side as the room wheeled dangerously, but he caught himself, forcing himself to take a steadying breath through his nose as the last of the pain drained away.  His skin was clammy and sweaty, a tremor ran through the muscles of his arms and chest, and the draining effects of the manacles reminded him of the time he’d caught mono in 10th grade.  But the bond was severed; this was the closest he’d been to freedom in six months.  A low, feral growl reverberated in the back of his throat as he summoned the will to push to his feet, his tail lashing behind him.  

An unfamiliar blonde guard looked up, the color draining from his face as he met Bucky’s eyes, <“Uh, sir?”>  
  
Lukin, paused paging through the book for just a moment, his stormy eyes narrowing at Bucky’s display.  <“It makes no difference.  Find me the knife!”  
  
With a steadying breath, Bucky drove his hardened shoulder into the bars of the cell.  A CLANG reverberating through the cellar and pain flooded still-bleeding shoulder, but the bars held fast against his weakened attack.   
  
<“Sir!”> The guard yelped.

Bucky grit his teeth, drawing in ragged breaths through his nose as the world dissolved into a red haze.

<“Found it sir,”> the second guard announced, brandishing the obsidian sickle that set the ridges raising all down Bucky’s spine.  

<“Hand it to me and get in there and restrain him.  All of you!”>  
  
Bucky loosed an inhuman roar, and continued slamming himself at the bars; animal rage seized him by the reins and Bucky _welcomed_ its lead.  
  
The guards faltered, looking between Lukin and the raging demon behind the bars.   <“Shouldn’t we tranq him first?”> the blonde hesitated.  
  
<“It won’t _work_ properly if he’s unconscious.  Do not make me order you twice.  There are eight of you and he’s already shackled, now GET IN THERE!” > Lukin roared, startling the group to action. 

The moment the cell door opened, Bucky flung himself out, snapping teeth first.  

Fangs met a soft throat, and even with kitten-weak muscles he summoned enough force to clamp down, a hot coppery-tinged spritz spraying into his mouth.  He bit down with a ferocious growl, sending two other guards falling back a few paces with a rewarding look of horror.  

The room exploded into action. He was an escaped tiger, about to visit all of his keepers’ cruelty back on them through savage fury.  Arms wrapped around his waist and Bucky unsheathed his wings with explosive force, knocking a guard back into the bars.  

Bucky bolted for the door, but his legs weren’t working properly.  His knees buckled when he tried to run, his ankles rolling under his own weight.  He managed to trip one of the guards that came for him with his tail, catching his balance via a spiked elbow in the soft side of another soldier.  

Suddenly, electricity slammed into the small of his back, dropping him to his knees with a screech.  Three more sets of arms grabbed him by the shoulders, elbows and horns.  Two more men pulled him back by the wings, pressing boots against the small of his back and baring his throat towards Lukin like wild game hunters presenting a fallen antelope.  

<“Hold him!  Hold him still!”> Lukin’s voice quavered with anticipation, hungry intensity in his eyes as he held the book open with one hand and brandished the sickle with the other.  

The more he continued to struggle, the weaker he felt.  They held him down, but couldn’t stop his screeching curses slung like weapons – none of the guards were brave enough to put a hand close to his mouth.  

<“That will be the last time you harm my men, demon.”>   Lukin said, coming to a parade rest to his left.  <“I will not make the same mistakes Fairbanks did.  He thought he could get away with so much, including lying to me.  The ritual to bind you, for example, was not nearly so complex as he would have liked to have me believe.  Allow me to demonstrate.”> A grim smile settled on Lukin’s stony features.

“ _Fuck you_.” Bucky raged, his words sounding more like the shriek of a banshee than anything uttered from a human throat. “I will make you regret the day you dragged me out of the snow!  I will tear off your arms and leave you to bleed!”  
  
Lukin ignored his uproar, instead beginning to mutter unfamiliar words in melodic Latin that quickly grew in volume, tying up Bucky’s voice and flooding his ears with rushing noise.  The sound bound him tighter than the manacles, his body locking as rigid as if he had been encased in stone.  Even his lungs in his chest and the lids of his eyes froze, leaving only his frantic heartbeat racing in his panic.  
  
Bucky’s skin prickled with gooseflesh, his ridges raising along with the fine hairs on the back of his neck as the dagger drew closer.  There was nothing he could do but scream internally as the sickle sliced into the still-raw scar tissue of the pentagram on his shoulder, reopening the wound with a new barrage of stinging pain that made a direct connection to the sensitive nerve endings.

Lukin gave him a final resentful glare before slicing into the meat of his palm and slapping it hard against his fresh wound.  

He had barely remembered the initial ritual, but the moment Lukin’s hand connected with the pentagram it all came flooding back along with a fresh wash of agony.  Those screaming nerves latched onto a white-hot energy that poured into him, seeking out each and every synapse in his body until it had bored into his brain.  For a moment, he _felt_ Lukin’s heartbeat thumping in time with his, and then all of the color and sound in the room spun away into a black vortex.

*  
When Bucky came to, he was laying on his side in what had once been the ritual room.  Signs of combat marred the walls in the form of splashes of blood and bullet holes.  The pain was gone, but along with it was Bucky’s will to fight.  He’d taken a risk, and he’d lost it all, and so many other people had paid for it.  The lingering smell of gunpowder and death served a sharp reminder of how many lives his attempt had cost. He lay numb on the hard concrete, the manacles still secured around his wrists, a scooped out shell of the man who’d woken up here nearly a year ago.  

He didn’t even look up as Lukin’s impeccable boots stepped into view.  <“You are awake.  Finally.”>

His only response came in the form of a grunt.   

<“Fairbanks treated you too much like a person.  That ends now.  You are a creature, my asset, my _weapon_.  When you address me, you will call me _master_.  That is your first standing order, demon.  Do you understand me?” >

“Yes, master,” tumbled from Bucky’s lips like stones.  

The scratch of a pen drew his eyes up to see Lukin making notes in the red book, the barest hint of a smile curving his lips.  <“Good.”>  He paused for only a moment, eyes drifting down to scrutinize his form. <“I am putting into effect the following standing orders: until I say otherwise, you are not to hurt, kill, or take action that would directly endanger any members of Hydra, yourself included.  You are also not to attempt any form of communication with or _leave any messages for_ anyone who is not a member of Hydra.” >

The orders tightened around him like a noose, and Bucky didn’t even bother to hide his disgust.  He had an opportunity, albeit brief – he could have ended his life, and he _missed it._

Lukin closed the book with a clap.  <“It will be better this way.  Simpler,”> he clipped matter-of-factly.  <“You have seen what your agency has cost you, and I am sure that you do not wish for a repeat of today any more than I.  Fairbanks was wrong: you were obviously not yet ready for action.  You set us back, and now we need to abandon this location, thanks to you.  You are lucky I am not just having you killed.”> He scrutinized Bucky’s expression with a frown, <“Do not look too disappointed.  Now, to your feet, Demon.”>  
  
Bucky surged to his feet with a wave of nausea that ran cold the moment he saw what was standing open behind Lukin: it looked like an iron maiden from a horror movie, a heavy cast-iron casket with a thick glass window set into the lid, secured into place with industrial bolts.  The now-familiar containment runes had been etched around the circumference of the coffin, so that when the lid was closed, it would complete the circle.  Heavy tubes ran into it, hooked up to tall machines full of switches.  Even a dozen feet away from it, Bucky could feel a tangible cold radiating from it like ghostly fingers reaching for him.  It tugged at a nebulous sense of déjà-vu of a time before he woke up in this facility missing his arm, of gasps of half-consciousness that had been full of painful shards of ice and oppressive claustrophobia.  

Animal instinct kicked him into a panic and Bucky balked, falling back a pace, “N-no.  I- I don’t want to go in there!” 

<“Do not worry; it will not kill you,”> Lukin sneered with mock sympathy.  <“Demons may not care for the cold, but you will sleep until I am better prepared to deal with you.  Perhaps this will serve as a lesson, but I honestly do not care.  Now, get in –”> Lukin barked, <“that is an order.”>

Bucky was propelled forward, stumbling into the chamber.  The moment that all of his limbs were inside, the door slammed shut; the temperature plummeting immediately.  Bucky barely had enough space to turn around, and by the time he had, it hurt to move; his limbs stiff and blood sluicing shards of glass through his veins.   
  
The last thing he saw, as the window grew hazy with ice crystals and his thoughts themselves froze solid, was Lukin’s grave face staring in at him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say that this chapter is particularly dark - Hydra/Lukin is deliberately impressing on him a potential consequence of his new nature, and forcing him to reconcile just how dangerous being a succubus can be for people around him. This situation really is a rape of both of them, even if Bucky is shouldering all the blame himself. However, that in no way makes things any better for Prewitt, even if Lukin was the one to set up the circumstances. 
> 
> Special thanks to Kamiki for extra writing assistance with Prewitt, and helping really twist that knife. 
> 
> ALSO! Thank you SO MUCH to angelicsociopath for this new, awesome gift art!
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> [ Reblog it on tumblr here!](http://araniaart.tumblr.com/post/165809533623/angelicsociopath-the-downward-spiral-by)


	20. Chapter 20

 Sharp light penetrated closed eyes.  A nauseating clench of his stomach pulled at locked muscles, still frozen stiff.  And the cold – the cold was all-consuming.  It had bitten down through his skin, his muscle, straight to the bone where it held him fast, locked him up, stole his breath, his mobility, and even his thoughts.  But as the world tilted and he spilled out of the cold like a violent afterbirth, the sensation of heat returning to his frostbitten skin managed to be even more painful.  Where skin thawed, it burned with sensation, prickling and aching, casting into sharp contrast just how cold it had been.  

When he risked cracking open his eyes, he immediately regretted it; the world was a confusing wash of unintelligible colors and sound.  Tactile sensations and smells were the only reliable sources of information as even his memories were slow to unlock and provide him with useful context beyond a _Fear!_ and _Wrong!_ that assaulted him through the haze.  Hot hands gripped him, moved him, sliding something warm – no hot – too hot! over him - and dragged his useless legs as they transferred him to a seated position onto a hard throne of metal bars and rods.  Something locked into place with a series of clanks and jangles.  Scents of people, wool and fur, cold concrete, chemicals and the tang of ozone that obscured all the rest crawled into his nose.  But there – a familiar scent, one that jostled loose thoughts of cold steel, stormy eyes, a hardened face and _Russia_ finally dislodged some fucking _context_.  

Lukin.

Bucky lifted his heavy head.  Damp, frozen hair plastered over his face as the blurry, familiar face of his tormentor – his _master_ – resolved into a clear image before him.  Ice thawed to sweat.  The breath caught in his throat.  There was no mistaking Lukin’s square features that looked like they’d been carved from granite and impeccably trimmed beard, but there was more salt than pepper in that hair, and fracture-line wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes and mouth that had not been there when he’d looked through the porthole of his metal coffin just… moments ago…?

Years ago.

It had to be years.  Bucky’s chest seized as life and fury woke anew in a flurry of impotent jerks against the heavy manacles clamped over his arms and legs.  The room spun as he spewed an unintelligible string of animal rage, his tongue still half-frozen and thick with artificial sleep.  They had stolen years more of his life in the blink of an eye!

<“Settle down, demon, that is an order!”> Lukin snapped, sapping the fight from him like a siphon.  

A hand drifted in out of his peripheral vision and lifted him by the chin, turned his head left and right and shone a light in his eyes and ears.  Distantly, a soft, rapid beeping reached his ears as he became aware of bulky, complex machines connected to the chair he had been secured into with heavy restraints inscribed with familiar glyphs. 

<“It is still sluggish, but recovering rapidly.  No apparent permanent damage,”> an unfamiliar voice in Russian drifted past.  

As the penlight moved away from his eyes, he blinked rapidly, the rest of the room resolving more clearly.   While the industrial-military style was familiar, still stinging with the scent of isolation, persistent winter and permafrost, gun oil and concrete, this wasn’t the same facility Bucky had spent a year of his life imprisoned in.   The layout was different, the walls a lighter color and cleaner, and unfamiliar, unplaceable scents lingered over the room.  This wasn’t the building where…  the memory of the horrific slaughter flooded him, still fresh as yesterday: blood splashing over his hands, into his mouth, as he massacred the Marines who had come because of _him_.  The look of Prewitt’s disgust and betrayal accosted him as fear-fed guilt spilled through his chest like acid…

<“It’s having a seizure!”> The unfamiliar voice rung out as hands steadied him.  A needle slid into his arm and his sudden nausea settled into a detached euphoria.  

His vision drifted over to reveal an older man withdrawing the empty needle.  He gave his arm a critical pat, scrutinizing the puncture wound that closed immediately.  At first glance, the man appeared meek; with protruding ears and what little hair he had left had been closely shaved, giving his head a rounded-dome-shape.  But on closer inspection, the slack skin of his jowls softened what appeared to have once been a chiseled jaw.  He held himself with a poise and confidence that read ex-military despite the light-colored suit and fucking bowtie that reminded him immediately of Zola.  The eyes that glinted acutely from within their permanent wrinkled circles were the same eyes of men who had seen true horrors on the battlefield.  

<“It is quite remarkable.  I must admit, I had expected an exaggeration.”> The words drifted over him to Lukin as the man’s fingers settled over the pulse-point in his right wrist. 

<“I do not exaggerate, Dr. Fennhoff,”> Lukin clipped brusquely.  <“Inflated data would only yield inaccurate projections and serve to undermine our goals.”>  
  
<“But you are certain that the physiology of its brain is analogous to a human’s?”> Fenhoff pressed, fidgeting with his wedding band, <“All of my work will be for naught if we are operating under false assumptions.”>

<“Nothing is certain, however my surgical explorations have suggested that while it is hardier, its internal systems function the same as a man’s.”> Lukin said.

Bucky groaned, his tongue failing to articulate the comeback he wanted to shoot back.  He wasn’t a fucking _animal_.  He was a person!  Did this Fenhoff person even know that?  Did it even matter?  He stunk of Hydra.   “F-fukoff-” was the best he could manage.

<“It speaks,”> Fenhoff snorted with the lift of a brow.  <“Impressive considering it was frozen solid a few minutes ago.”>

<“I’m pleased we could tool the thermal vest to function properly.”> Lukin responded coolly as he strode up for a closer inspection.  Bucky knew Lukin’s subtle expressions well enough to recognize a gloat.  <“If it speaks, then it can understand.”>

A snarl curled into Bucky’s lip.  Whatever they’d given him a shot of had left him watery and unnaturally calm, but it would take a lot more than that to quell his anger. 

<“I have some new standing orders for you,”> Lukin opened a familiar book, now bearing a few more inkstains and creasing in the binding.  He’d given this some thought, apparently.  God knew he’d apparently had plenty of time.  <“In addition to the orders I gave you before putting you away, your standing orders are as follows: whenever I address you by _Soldat,_ it will be considered a formal order.  Never lie to me, and you must always answer direct questions.  Do you understand, _Soldat_?” >

“Yes, master,” Bucky slurred automatically, glaring daggers as best he could with his right eyelid drooping more than his left.  Hell, at least it was better than _Carus_ , but he was in an awful fucking predicament if that was his silver lining.  

<“It is about time that we make this relic of the war relevant and useful once more,”> Lukin said, straightening and clasping his hands behind his back.  <“Fairbanks was far too short-sighted and soft of heart.  He rushed the program when we needed the time and proper investment to make sure our weapon functioned _properly_.” >  

Lukin lifted his head, a sneering smirk cracking his face, <“Perhaps it was good enough for the sorcerers of old to bargain and mind their phrasing around bound demons, but we are men of science and there are better, more effective ways to ensure that this creature no longer looks for his precious loopholes.”>

Oh boy, back to monologues.  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Bucky managed to string together, hoping that he sounded more defiant than terrified.

<“We now have the technology to strip you of this willfulness once and for all.”> Lukin placed a hand reverently on the equipment ominously surrounding him. <“Dr. Fenhoff has made some arrangements with Dr. Zola and built us this miraculous machine.”>

Bucky’s stomach squirmed; why was he being this forthcoming?  How long had he been in storage like some kind of weapon?

Fenhoff straightened, preening.  <“I call it the ‘Winter Soldier’ conditioning process.   My studies in the human mind and the affects of amnesia proved quite fruitful.”>  As he boasted, the doctor came alive with hand gestures and a lilting tone,  <“This equipment will allow us to target a subject’s memories, leaving skills and knowledge intact but effectively burning away identity itself.  Unfortunately, it is quite a… traumatic operation, requiring a subject to be conscious throughout the procedure.  So it is still not yet suitable for mere mortals, but General Lukin assures me that that will not be a problem in this case.”>

Panic drained the blood from Bucky’s face, collecting it deep in his bowels.  “NO!” he shouted, voice strained and cracking but beyond the point of giving a damn about letting Lukin see how scared he was; he was staring down the barrel of a gun, but the outcome here was so much worse than death.  He struggled fruitlessly against the reinforced, glyphed manacles, desperate and terrified.    Fuck, the reason they didn’t give a damn about telling him was because he wasn’t going to fucking remember any of this – any of himself – his parents, Rebecca, Steve!  _This couldn’t be happening, please God, do something to stop this!_   But God surely had no more love for him to spare, not after the things he’d done, the _thing_ he’d become.  Something warm and wet trickled down his frozen cheeks as he doubled over as far as the manacles would allow him.  

<“It is appropriately named, don’t you think?  To coopt an American proverb, you will be as loyal as a winter soldier.  After this, you will persist through the harshest of Russian winters.”> Lukin chuckled quietly over his protests, angling his chair backwards as a mechanical hum began to sizzle through the air.

“I don’t care what the fuck you call it,” He whispered harshly, “You’re going to burn for this!” 

<“Come now, _Soldat_ , this is a good thing.  I know how much guilt must sit on your shoulders – all those men you murdered back at the old facility, the way you debased yourself to Fairbanks, to the other men.  You will be rid of the fear, of the guilt; it will be easier this way.”>

Bucky raised his eyes to meet Lukin’s, searing him with pure spite, “You mean easier on _you_.” He was held fast, there was no out here, no loopholes, no escape, but he would be damned if he went down complicity.  He owed it to the men he killed, he owed it to himself, he owed it to _Steve_.  Forgetting was not an absolution of guilt, it was giving up.  “Fuck you, Lukin!  You’re the real monster here.  You always have been.”

Lukin shrugged, <“It makes no difference to me.  Whether or not you choose to accept this balm on your soul or go down screaming curses at me, you have already lost this game, demon.”>  A technician handed a small object to Lukin, <“Bite down on this, _Soldat_ , so that you do not bite off your tongue.”>

Bucky took it with a snarl, deliberately missing Lukin’s fingers by millimeters and clamped down hard on the rubber.  Ragged breaths came in through his nose as a ring-shaped apparatus lowered around his head, irregularly-shaped metal plates pressing against his temples. 

<“I cannot guarantee that this will be a permanent solution.  That would be a best-case scenario,”> Fenhoff cautioned.  <“However, if my hypothesis is correct, if it is even capable of neural regeneration and not just knitting back together simple tissue and bone, it will take more than merely energy, but time as well.  Healing the brain is not like healing the body: it is delicate work, like fixing an intricate piece of machinery, not beating the dents out of a car.”>

<“What are you saying, Fenhoff?”> Lukin snipped, <“Why are you only bringing this up to me now?  Is this going to work or not?  I have not invested this much time and resources for temporary measures!”>   
  
Bucky didn’t dare to hope – he didn’t dare.  Hope had gotten him nowhere but mired deeper in shit. 

Fenhoff made a soothing motion with his hands, <“Worst case scenario it will still take it days, even with ample energy in its system, to repair the damage and solve the puzzle of intricate neural pathways.  But if that is the case, shorter maintenance sessions can allow you to target regenerating nerves and leave newer, relevant pathways intact.  However, be aware that just because you are corrupting its access to its memories does not mean it cannot form new ones.  That is a good thing – it will allow it to learn, but mind what you say and do around it,”> Fenhoff added with a sardonic tone.  <“Regardless, if necessary, subsequent full treatments should allow you to return it to a fresh, blank slate state.”>

Bucky breathed in savagely through his nose, baring his teeth against the rubber mouthguard.  He wanted to hang on the words, to listen to what Fenhoff was saying about the procedure, but _what’s the fucking point??  It’s just going to be taken away from me!  Fuck, my life has been HELL, but I don’t want to forget who I am!  I don’t want to forget Mom, Dad, Becca, Steve!_   Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on their faces.  

<“Will it still follow the orders given to it before the wipe?”> Lukin asked, indifferent to Bucky’s panic.  
  
<“I do not know the workings of this… purported “magic”, Lukin.  But it will know skills, even if it does not know how it knows them.”>  
  
Bucky struggled, terrified of his immediate fate, but the fact they were speaking so casually over him of their plans was even more horrifying.  They knew he was no threat, knew there was no danger in him knowing _truths_ because these precious bits of information, their intent, was about to be fucking stolen from him!

<“Understood.  It shall be a simple enough matter to find out.  Proceed when ready, Dr. Fenhoff.”>   
  
A static charge frizzled around his face and an escalating hum bored into his ears.  

_I am James Buchanan Barnes!  32557038!_

The electricity hit him like a bullet to the brain.  Even muffled by the mouthguard, his screams reverberated off of the concrete walls.  
  
_I am James Buchanan Barnes!  32557038!_  
  
The second shock was stronger than the first, slamming through him like a lightning strike.  The mouthguard fell to the ground as his jaw stretched open in a ragged wail.  

The moment the current cut off he gasped out, “J-James… BUCHANAN BARNES!  32557038!”  The words stirred strength in him that wasn’t there a moment ago.  He could do this – he wouldn’t let go- 

The third jolt made the second feel like a static shock from corduroy pants.  

The surge burrowed into his head.  His saliva turning to foam in his mouth as his jaw locked up and his body went rigid, the restraints the only things keeping his body in the seat.  The minutes (seconds?) peeled away tortuously slow.  _He couldn’t breathe!_   

By the time the electricity released him, the tears were flowing nonstop down his cheeks and Bucky couldn’t remember what his mother looked like.  

“J… James.. Bu-bucky… Barnes… 3255- 3255” _What was the rest of the number?_ They were burning him out of his own head!  

Without so much as a flinch, his master turned the dials up once more, and the only thing that existed was scorching pain.  

*  
There was a number… he was supposed to be thinking of a number.  It was _important_.   
  
The pain came again, dissipating his thoughts like smoke on the breeze. 

*

The pain swept away like the retreating tide, leaving him gasping desperately for air.  

He only had a moment to breathe before the electricity came rushing back, knocking the precious breath from his lungs as it was expelled into a ragged scream.  

*

*  
  
* 

His head pounded like it had been tenderized with a mallet.  The smell of ozone clogged his nose, and even as the deafening roar of a machine powered down to a whisper, a tinny ringing remained in his ears like an echo.  

Gradually, the tinny shriek faded into a fluttering beeping that kept time with his racing heartbeat.  _What the hell happened?  Where am I?  Why does it feel like I just lost a fistfight with a gorilla?_

No answers emerged.  

The beeping picked up speed and a chill flushed over him despite his pores weeping with sweat.  
  
“Wh-where am I?” His voice scraped raw in this throat and he flinched, trying to swallow, but his mouth was bone-dry and the attempt just made it hurt worse.   
  
<“You are in the medical wing of a highly secure Soviet military facility,”> a gruff voice answered in… Russian?   
  
He lifted his head to see a severe-looking man in a Soviet military uniform with a neatly-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.  The face was unfamiliar, and yet a deeper, cloying sense of familiarity kept his eyes fixed on the man.  Somehow, he _knew_ him.  _He’s a general._ The information bubbled unprompted to the surface of his mind as he glanced at the insignia on the man’s epaulet.  He couldn’t put his finger on how he knew that – there was no context for the information, just a naked fact read from his mind like an encyclopedia entry.    

As he cast a bleary look around, he realized that other men were also staring at him; an older man in a suit at the general’s side watched him with intense eyes.  Four armed men in uniform stood further back and looked distinctly unnerved.  His skin crawled under the scrutiny.  

“ _Where_?” He rasped, confused. _Was he in the military?  Was he injured on duty?  What was going on?!_

<“You will address us in Russian, _Soldat_ ,”> the general snapped, emphasizing the title like a name.   
  
His back straightened automatically.  So he _was_ a soldier.  But then  <“Yes, master,”> fell from his lips without a thought, shooting a current of fear down his spine.  _The hell?_

The general clarified with a smile that shows too many teeth, <“You are in the mortal realm, demon.”>

His breath caught in his throat.  What?  Was that some kind of joke? That wasn’t- No… that _couldn’t_ be right, didn’t _seem_ right, but his eyes dropped down nonetheless and the room lurched.  Wrapped around his knees was a _tail_.  Clawed hands with twitching fingers were held down by restraints with runes inscribed in them.  He could… he could _feel_ them leeching at him. 

It was true.    

But how could he not have known that!? He shook his head violently, but as he frantically searched his mind for any kind of context, any kind of explanation, any kind of _identity,_ nothing came to him but a yawning absence of information.   
  
<“Why… why can’t I remember…?”> He stuttered out, eyes searching and his voice cast a few pitches higher.  

The other man stepped forward, fidgeting with a simple ring on his left hand.  <“Easy, now.  There is nothing to worry about.  General Lukin summoned you, gave you form and function for a rare opportunity to serve a _good_ purpose.  A good man, a _good soldier_ gave his body - his life - so that you might better serve our cause.” >

The man’s words settled heavily on his shoulders, but did little to calm the panic that had taken up residence in his bones.  His eyes unfocused, tail tightening around his shin.  

<“Listen to me, demon: focus.”> The light reflecting off of the band on his finger caught his attention and gave him something to rest his eyes on.  <“You, as you are now, are something _new_ ; something greater than the sum of its parts.  You can give meaning to the soldier who gave his life to birth you.  You have been created to do good in this world, to help usher mankind into an era of unity and peace.”> The tone of the older man’s words were comforting, a balm to his frantic nerves.  His breathing began to even out, the beeping growing steadier.  
  
The man’s voice remained even and reassuring, <“Unfortunately, such a thing does not come without a cost.  You will be our _Winter Soldier_ , the fist of Hydra.  Your loyalty will inspire awe in our allies and dread in our enemies.  Together, we will forge a better world.  You want that, don’t you?”>  

And he _did_.  The idea of making a difference and doing good struck a chord he didn’t realize he had, resonating deeply within him.   <“Yes, sir,”> he murmured.  Nothing made sense.  His head vibrated; nausea mixed with confusion.  However, General Lukin and his associate’s offer of a semblance of stability and explanation gave him something he could cling to: an anchor in the tumultuous storm of his mind.  Even if some of what they said made him distinctly uncomfortable, he could _sense_ something – an invisible but undeniable connection to the general that reminded him of a dog on a leash.  They said he was made to serve… and that seemed somehow familiar. 

<“Good.”> Lukin strode forward, pulling his attention back to his steely eyes.  He flipped a series switches on a large panel; the sound of automatic locks releasing his only warning before he spilled, boneless from the chair and onto frigid concrete.  Lukin stood over him, casting his shadow over his face as he struggled to collect himself up onto his elbows.  <“Stay on your knees, _Soldat._   This is your place before me.  Do not forget – you were created to serve Hydra, to serve _me._   You are no man, but a weapon.  A tool.  So long as you remember your place, then we will not have problems and you can do your part.  Do you understand me?”>

<“Yes, master,”> he replied, mind buzzing as if it were filled with bees.  <“But I don’t think-“>

<“You do not need to think,”> Lukin corrected sharply, and his body flinched back reflexively at the general’s tone.  Lukin’s eyes held him for several tense breaths before his voice evened out, <“Not unless I tell you to.  Now, _Soldat_ , tell me: is there any remnant of this body’s previous inhabitant in your mind?  Any memories?  A name, perhaps?”>

His brow furrowed and he searched his mind.  It was like trying to dig through shifting sand.  The more he dug, the more he was buried by the crushing weight of confusion.  His eyes dropped to the ground as he answered, <“I don’t – I don’t know, master.  Nothing seems like it’s in order in my head.  Like it’s jumbled – there’s facts, things, but, I don’t know how to find something I’m looking for.”>

But instead of the anger he anticipated, Lukin’s face smoothed, <“Very well.  All you need to know is that you belong to me.”> The general made eye contact with his associate, and they shared a nod.  <“Now come with me, it is time to put your capabilities to the test.”>

*

Wielding the power in his body and its natural assets – from his wings to his claws, to guising his features to appear human - surfaced innately.  Likewise, weapons training came as easily to him as breathing.  His master seemed pleased, but not surprised – after all, he said this body had been well-trained, and that knowledge had passed onto him.  While some of the weapons they drilled him on were less familiar, sleeker than the others whose names he knew on sight, the basic principals were similar enough that he made a quick study.   

They kept him too busy to spend much time in his head.  Following their commands was simple; rifling through his mind led him down rabbit holes that left him feeling disoriented and uncomfortable.  When he performed to their satisfaction, he was rewarded with water and sustenance.  When he failed, his master uttered a word that made the star-shaped scar on his arm flare to life with agony.  It was a straightforward system.   
  
It continued like this for days; they returned him late every night, worked to exhaustion, back to a simple cell surrounded by a circle of runes that kept him contained. The dreams that visited him each night were a cacophonous mix of images and disjointed sounds – as if he were standing in a bare patch of earth, surrounded on all sides by a monumental wall of tumultuous sea.  The weight of its presence and depth of its contents pressed in on him, but he could only perceive a sliver of images that lacked the anchor of context.  

Each morning, Lukin woke him with the same phrase, <“Good morning, _Soldat._ Have any memories surfaced?”>

Every morning, he felt the press of fear for disappointing Lukin when he shook his head and responded with <“No, master.”>  But his master never seemed upset with the negative response, only nodded curtly and led him to his work.

After the third day, upon completion of his training in weapons where he had demonstrated particular aptitude with long-range accuracy, he was given a different reward: they showed him the other service he had been crafted for.  And _oh_ – it had felt so good.  Better than food, better than water, better even than uninterrupted sleep.  He came alive as he was instructed to pleasure his master.  His entire body lit up in ecstasy as he worked his tongue and lips over the general’s cock until it bathed him with energy in the form of a spray of salty, delicious come.  

Yet the words he threw at him as he fed made his stomach squirm with shame.  But he _was_ a demon.  What more could he expect – he wasn’t telling him anything but the truth, no matter how much the words hurt.

A phantom sense of resentment and wrongness lingered upon waking a little longer each day, and he found himself leaving a mark in the wall with a claw each morning– for what purpose, he couldn’t begin to say, though when Lukin spied them on the fifth day, he was punished with two back-to-back pain commands that left him pissing himself on the floor of his cell. 

He stopped keeping a record of his confinement.  

Only a few days later, he woke suddenly with a number on his lips as if it were the key to a lock he hadn’t yet found.  When Lukin posited the same question he asked every morning, a strange part of him balked, urging him to withhold this information.  Even if disobeying Lukin would surely only end in pain, it felt _important._

Yet, the answer spilled from his mouth nonetheless, <“I woke this morning with a number in my mind – beginning with 325... I’m afraid I do not know the significance, master.”> He looked up, hoping to see a smile to reward his discovery, perhaps even a tangible prize for finally dredging up this clue. 

Instead, his master’s face hardened.  His mouth went dry as a hand seized him by the horns, jerking him to his feet.  

*

<“A week, Fenhoff!”> Lukin snapped as he shoved him into the room that still stank of ozone and chemicals.   <“A damn week and your process is already breaking down.”>

Fear clenched his heart – what was happening?  He’d been summoned, _created_ a week ago.  Was his anchor to this body weakening or something?  

Fenhoff’s head snapped up from where he was bent over a complex nest of wires, but his expression remained collected.  <“A week is better than our pessimistic estimates.  And this is a week with regular sleep, which has likely aided the brain’s recovery.”>

 _Wait… Recovery?  What was he talking about?_ Doubt sunk to the pit of his stomach like a lead weight.  

<“ _Your_ pessimistic estimates,”> Lukin corrected with a snarl.  

<“This step was only ever intended to determine a timeframe you would have to work with.  Congratulations, you have an answer, and a perfectly sufficient one, I should think,”> Fenhoff said with a sniff.  

Was his creation just an experiment?  Were they going to create another demon to follow through with their goals?  Had he failed them?  

<“I wasn’t looking for an answer – I was looking for a _solution_ , Fenhoff.  Now all I have is a half-measure.”> Lukin’s right hand tightened to a fist and he found himself drifting out of the immediate path between the two men.

Fenhoff waved his hand.  <“What you have is an efficient weapon with a time frame.  If it is half as successful in the field as during its drills, then that should be more than ample to suit your needs.”>

<“Am I going to be okay?  I’m not… _dying_ , am I?”> he asked nervously, regretting speaking up and interrupting his master the moment the words left his mouth.  Lukin’s hand snapped up sharply, making as if to hit him, but stalled.  He instead converted the aborted gesture into a pat on the cheek a little too rough to be consolatory.  

<“No,”> Lukin pinched his face into what he supposed was supposed to be a smile.  He cast a scathing look back towards Fenhoff, <“You are not dying.  You are _unstable._ ”>

He swallowed thickly, tail twitching behind him.  

Fenhoff whet his lips, eyes skimming the room for a moment, <“Cryofreeze should preserve it at its current state.”>  An uncomfortable swirling of déjà vu hit him alongside chills shooting down his spine at the mention of the word.  <“Besides, as we have already discussed, weapons are stored when they are not in use: there is no reason to keep it active outside of a mission or training update.  That, alongside a standard maintenance regime to restabilize the process upon resuscitation, should have it functioning as designed.”> Fenhoff dusted his hands off, lifting his brows to Lukin in a challenge. 

Lukin grit his teeth, glancing sidelong back in his direction, but didn’t press the issue.  <“Its skillset has been updated.  I see no reason to maintain it outside of cryo any longer until we are prepared for its next mission.  However, this discussion isn’t over.”>

Fenhoff rolled his shoulders, nonplussed.  <“Of course not.  However, I did anticipate this eventuality; the chamber is already prepared.”>

The whisper of wrongness that had been gradually building over the past few days converted into a scream when the heavy steel casket swung open and a frigid mist rolled out, reaching for him like spectral hands.  

He fell back a pace, heart hammering.  He knew in his bones that it was _bad_ , that it would hurt.  He hadn’t done anything – hadn’t _meant_ to do anything to anger his master.  He had _asked_ him if he remembered anything – he was trying!  He thought he’d be rewarded!   <“Master, I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to upset you - I don’t want to go in there!”>

This time, the backhand connected.  <“A weapon does not _want!_ ”> Lukin snapped.  His master’s anger hurt far worse than the blow.  

His tail curled between his legs.  He’d fucked up.  <“I-”>

<“Remove your clothing and get into the cryo chamber, _Soldat_.” > Lukin said, not allowing him to finish his sentence.

  
Mechanically, he undressed, leaving the clothing in a neat pile on the floor. Then, facing the icy coffin like a firing squad, he strode forward.  The cold enveloped him, drawing him in like a cruel lover. The door slammed shut with a groaning clang, and frozen fog filled the vessel with a hiss.  The unbearable cold managed to grow even colder; so cold it stole his breath, the light, and then finally, when he could bear the frostbitten pain that penetrated his skin like needles no longer, his consciousness.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end of this fic guys, eeee! We've got it finished in the writing, just need to squeeze it through some beta'ing! :D
> 
> I want to give some shouts outs here to:  
>   
> -Kamiki/shipperhipster as always for working on this with me, giving lots of feedback and idea-shooting and collaboration with this!
> 
> \- [Shaish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaish) for the awesome chattings and feedback and some edits and the awesome giftarts on earlier chapters!
> 
> \- [Defiler_Wyrm ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/works)for extra feedback, and also some great inspiration in his wicked HTP fic "[Traumatic Insemination](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715826)" that depicts a really affecting blank slate/fugue state for the Asset post-wipe in his story. (Awesome fic, but definitely mind the tags/warnings!)  
>   
> \- [Syralscreams](http://syralscreams.tumblr.com/) for awesome support and shouting with me on Tumblr about the fic! <3  
>  


	21. Chapter 21

 

Being thrust into the cold hurt.  Being dragged out of it, roused from a state deeper than sleep, and the painful rush of sensation returning to frozen limbs hurt so much worse.  He barely had time to process the bitter temperatures when he had been put into the chamber, but the slow slog to wakefulness allowed him to experience each and every torturous moment of thawing.  He was so cold that the chill air stung his frostbitten skin, to say nothing of the jacket with built-in heating elements they had slid on over his bare chest.

By the time his throat had unfrozen enough to groan, the building whirr of the _chair_ he was strapped into jostled loose a déjà vu association of _pain_.  It barely registered before he tasted rubber, then copper.  Ozone stung his nose as the electricity bored into his skull and a new level of pain drove away the world.

*  
The mouthguard dropped from his mouth into the waiting hand of a technician with a wet splork, the drool continuing to run down his chin as he failed to take even breaths.  

<“Welcome back, _Soldat,_ ”> a voice penetrated the ringing in his ears.  

Blearily, he looked over to a man – _Lukin.  Master_.   
  
<“Do you know who I am?”>

<“Master,”> he drawled with a sandpaper throat.  Movement of men in labcoats flitted at the edge of his vision; an IV needle slipped into his right arm as a taste flared in the back of his throat as if someone had emptied a battery down his gullet.  

<“And who are you?”> The question was harsher, delivered under knitted brows and a steely glance.

He frowned, foraging through splintered thoughts.  Answers came in pieces, delivered to speech before passing through any kind of filter.  <“A demon; a tool; a weapon.  I am yours to command.”> He couldn’t say how he knew those things, but he knew them like he knew the thorny skin on his arm or how to properly fire and disassemble a _Mosin-Nagant_ 91/30: simple facts devoid of context.  

<“That is correct, _demon_ ,”> the word carried with it a flicker of shame that made him want to cover his body like he would his nakedness.  As he drew his guise around himself like a shroud, his master’s body posture became a touch less tense.  The nonverbal approval settled over him like a balm.    

<“Today, you have a purpose: a mission.  This is a valuable opportunity for you to prove your usefulness to Hydra: to show that you can make a difference – _do good_ – in the world.” > Lukin stepped closer, leading with his barreled chest.  <“This is going to be a difficult test for you, but if you can prove that you are up to the task and can be useful, then we will not need to correct your behavior.  Now, are you prepared, _Soldat?_ ”>

He flinched reflexively, the taste of blood and metal, bile and rubber muscled to the forefront of his mind.  His master could hurt him – that was another uncontestable fact.  <“Ready to comply,”> he murmured with a dip of his head.  

<“Good,”> Lukin opened a familiar red-bound book, drawing a finger across the page as he read, <“You have new standing orders for when you are on missions, _Soldat:_ Your top priority must be the completion of the mission objective.  If the timeframe of the mission expires, you must return to the extraction point regardless of mission success or failure.  You are not allowed to sleep.  You are not allowed to feed unless you are given leave to do so by a commanding officer or it is a part of the mission parameters.  If you sense a heat coming on, you must report to your CO or your closest officer if he is not available.  You may not communicate with anyone outside of your supervising officers beyond what is necessary for the mission parameters, including maintaining cover.  Cover your trail and leave no evidence behind.  You must not be followed by anyone other than those who are on your team.  Leave no non-Hydra witnesses of assassinations.  Remain guised at all times unless your life would be in danger or capture is imminent; leave no non-Hydra witnesses to your true form.”> He closed the book sharply, <“Certain mission parameters may override these standing orders, but only for the duration of those missions.  Do you understand, _Soldat?_ ”>

<“Yes, master,”> he droned as the orders chiseled into his soul. 

<“Very good.”>  Lukin reached a hand out, and immediately someone placed a thick manila folder in his waiting fingers.  <“Your mission is as follows: you will be taken to the Hotel Astoria in Leningrad.  Your cover identity is Yermolai Volkov – you will be provided with identification papers and briefed on your background.  However, _Soldat_ – just as when you use your guise to appear human, you will only be pretending to be human for this mission.  You will engage in conversations, blend in with a populace, but it is all just a mask.  Do not forget your place.” >

He nodded.  His wings and tail already itched under the restraint of the guise.  He would not forget what he was, or the importance of keeping his shameful nature a secret from the world at large.  It would be how he could make a difference and do good in the world, even if it meant pretending to be human.  

His master passed him a dossier, <“Memorize the contents of this folder: it details the layout of the hotel, location of the security cameras, and your targets.”>

He opened the folder, fixing his attention on the photo of a clean-shaven, middle-aged man with glases and high cheekbones in a decorated uniform.  The short bio described him as Sergei Kapustin, an official of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

<“Your mission, _Soldat_ , will be to use your pheromones and natural charms to seduce this man; have him take you without the company of his bodyguards, to his room...”>

*

Even accompanied by Captain Sokolov, the Asset felt like an alien as they entered the lavish Hotel Astoria.  Compared to the utilitarian locations the Asset had grown accustomed to, the hotel dripped luxury like oozing honey from a beehive.  Sokolov strode naturally through the elegant foyer, the heels of his polished shoes clicking with his confident stride.  The asset followed alongside him like a ghost, moving silently across the mirror-finish of the marble flooring.  Sokolov did the preliminary talking, producing invitations that secured the two of them entry to the night’s event.

He kept his face a mask of subdued admiration, but adjusted the fine leather glove on his left hand for the third time.  The nice suit he wore, despite having been expertly tailored to his physique, felt more unnatural than his guise and twice as fake.  

His sharp mind had memorized the locations of the security cameras.  Keeping his face hidden from the silent sentries was as simple as a well-timed turn of the head to ask Sokolov a question or dropping his gaze downwards to make a study of the intricate patterns inlaid in the marble. 

None of it prepared him for the Winter Garden ballroom.  Wafting jazz music drew him in like a siren’s song, stirring something unnamable within him.  The music flowed directly through his soul to transform his rigid gate into a confident, dancing swagger.  Everything in the room flowed with ivory and gold, from the pale parquet floors to massive Greco-Roman statues.  An enormous glass ceiling separated the pleasantly warm room from the cold, clear night sky perfectly visible through intricate metalwork designs above.  Exotic, tropical-looking plants ringed the room in large pots and planters, lending the room an impression of being open-air.  Waiters swam the crowds expertly with beverages on trays.  At a few clusters of linen-clad tables sat clowders of elegantly dressed women drinking champagne from crystal glasses and men in uniform sending clouds of earthy cigar smoke billowing into the air.  

If he closed his eyes, it almost felt… familiar somehow?  _If the jazz beat were a little faster_ … disjointed images of flying feet in buckled shoes and twirling skirts joined the aroma of smoke and liquor swirling through his head.  But that didn’t make sense, unless, perhaps, it was merely a ghost of the previous occupant of this body.  The Asset – for now, Yermolai Volkov, left his handler’s side as planned to forge ahead into the crowd as if he belonged there.

When he put on the charm like another guise, he _oozed_ sex appeal: everything from the confident, flirty smile that played at the corner of his lips like a secret to the intimate shift of his hips as he walked.  Heads turned and smiles found their way to mouths as the Asset deliberately allowed his mind to wander and release a subtle, low-level of pheromones, just enough to accentuate his innate charm that read through his body language like Braille.  

It took the Asset little time to spot his target: seated at a table near the front of the room and chatting lively with a ring of attentive men and women.  However, as briefed, he did not head directly to his quarry.  Instead, he made a slow round of the room like a shark circling its prey.  He plucked a glass of stiff vodka from one of the circling trays, making sure to make a show of drinking it, letting his lips and tongue play around the rim of the glass just on this side of scandalous when he finally made his way to Kapustin’s table.  

He looked precisely like the photograph from the dossier, save for the ruddy color to his face, easy laugh, and scent of liquor wafting off of him that indicated he was already a few drinks into the night.  The Asset ran a hand over his long hair that had been pomaded into a voluminous swept-back coif and slid into a vacant chair next to Kapustin as if he had been invited.  
  
He hardly had to say a word past a simple introduction.  Instead, he spoke with his posture, his mannerisms, and his predatory presence, his allure enhanced by the mystery.  He didn’t act like he merely belonged in the ballroom, he _owned_ it.  Kapustin’s eyes kept drifting back to him.  So did the rest of the table’s, but the other nameless dilettantes weren’t worth his attention.  

Using his pheromones was akin to listening to a song in his head.  He hung on the conversation on one level, but let lower-level thoughts drift untethered to rolling bodies, hot breath and sweet aches.  He was hard in his pants in anticipation of the quarry, and of pleasing his master.  He was doing _good work_ here, using his demonic talents to make a _difference_.  He was lucky to be here.

On Kapustin’s third joke, the Asset rewarded him with the barest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.  After five minutes, his knee deliberately brushes against the official’s for a moment longer than an accidental bump should have lasted.  

The liquor and the Asset’s presence worked in beautiful harmony.  As the conversation drew on, Kapustin grew more flushed in the face, the gloss of sweat forming a shine over his brow.   After twenty minutes, Kapustin excused himself to go get a drink from the bar, walking a little stiffly as he did.  The asset allowed him a few moments before getting up to follow him.  He moved with a dancer’s perfect control of every movement paired with the feral intensity of a tiger on the prowl.

The ice rattled in the drink in Kapustin’s hand as the Asset moved up behind him, making the pretense of trying to get the bartender’s attention.  His body pressed in a little closer than social decorum would permit, the innuendo thick as he rumbled his request for something “stiff”.  

<“I have stronger in my room,”> Kapustin swallowed, not meeting the Asset’s eyes.  <“A 20 year old _Glenmorangie_ \- imported,” > he whispered lowly.  <“Perhaps you would like to share it with me.”>

<“Sounds like precisely what I have been looking for, Comrade Kapustin.”> His voice was husky and the official swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple bouncing.  

<“Fifteen minutes, room 602.”>

He abandoned the bar after finishing the drink in one swallow.  The Asset watched him like a hawk as he left the ballroom, noting as Kapustin gave a curt shake of his head to two men poised at the edges of the room, doing their best imitation of potted plants.  

Precisely fifteen minutes later, he set off after him.  As his mission directed, he made certain that he was caught on camera, but his face never pointed in the proper direction for identification.  

Kapustin was paler in the face when he answered the knock at his door, but the flush returned almost immediately as the Asset’s presence filled the doorframe.  <“Comrade Volkov, I wasn’t certain that you would come,”> his voice quavered.  The fifteen minutes had given him enough space from the pheromones that his head might have cleared, but whatever longing or social decorum had made him decide to answer the knock had literally opened the door to his influence once more.  

<“Of course,”> he purred in response.  <“These days, it is so difficult to find a good drink, wouldn’t you say?”>  And just like that, he was in.  

The scents of cigar smoke and leather welcomed him in to the lavish suite adored with gilded framed paintings, an ornate globe-shaped chandelier hung above a heavy writing desk, and a tall, quilted leather stiff-backed sofa.  The _Glenmorangie_ , as it turned out, wasn’t entirely innuendo.  The scotch he was poured coated his tongue with spiced coffee and molasses that at once brightened his mouth and set his shoulders at ease – like the liquid version of the jazz music downstairs.  He savored the flavor that was both intriguing and disturbingly familiar, though he _knew_ his master had never granted him alcohol before.  Not that it would compromise his facilities, but there was no point wasting such a luxury on a weapon save for matters of deception such as this.  

Dredging his thoughts back to the present, he let his eyes rest on the large window in the sitting area.  The view from the sixth floor was exquisite: a massive cathedral with a domed roof visible through the window.  Kapustin allowed him a moment’s appreciation before drawing the curtains closed.  <“The view is nice, certainly, but tonight I am more interested in feasting my eyes on what is in the room.”>  

The Asset cocked his head, letting a coy smile play over his lips as he drew closer, <“Mmm, why don’t you show me around?”>  Then, with  a wink, he led the way.  

Kapustin hung close, following after him as if caught on his scent as he prowled the rooms of the elegant suite.  He had memorized the floorplan before his arrival, but being inside the elegant suite was disconcerting.  The wealth on display was excessive, and the amount of rooms the official commanded for a presumably temporary stay was difficult to conceive.  When they passed by a heavy door that, according to the plans, led to the adjoining suite, the Asset noted that Kapustin didn’t comment on it.  Instead, he dropped his voice, speaking more quietly until they had gained some distance from the door.  Finally, the Asset deliberately ended his perusal with the master bedroom where a massive king-size bed with a heavy wooden frame dominated the room.  He licked the amber beads from his lips as he set his glass down on a nightstand.  

<“As I am sure you can tell from my choice of accommodations and liquor, I am an aficionado of fine things.  And you, Comrade Volkov, are a very fine thing.”>

<“It sounds to me as if you are accustomed to getting what you want.”> The response came easily, seduction another language he was fluent in.  His fingers traced in the perspiration around the base of his glass, and in the low lamplight, his eyes took on a keen shine. <“So tell me, Comrade, what is it that you want right now?”> He brought the moistened finger to his lips, maintaining eye contact as he ran his tongue lasciviously along the fingerpad.

His eagerness was no act.  After having spent the entire evening on the prowl in anticipation, he was _hungry._ It was a simple enough thing to cloud the minds of other men, but he was not entirely immune to his own perfume.  Once he let his thoughts begin to wander down this path, it was difficult to find his way back.

Kapustin’s eyes darkened as he closed the short distance between them.  <“I want those lips on me instead.”>

The Asset needed no further invitation.  He seized him roughly, mashing his lips against his in a snarling kiss.  Kapustin’s racing pulse hammered under his fingertips as he held him by the wrists, his erection grinding needily against the Asset’s own.  The Asset only permitted a few moments of gnashing, desperate kissing before he took control, shoving Kapustin into a seat on the side of the mattress.  The file had been comprehensive: intelligence suggested that Sergei Kapustin liked his partners aggressive, and if his blown pupils and straining hard on were any indication, the information was accurate.  

He made short work of Kapustin’s trousers, smiling at his start of exclamation as he ripped open the fly, sending buttons scattering onto the carpet,  <“Hey – those slacks were expen-”> his protests were cut off as the Asset ran his tongue hungrily up the length of his member.  

He’d followed mission protocol to the letter – now, it was time to feed.  

After all, his master had been exceedingly kind: he had been permitted to feed on this assignment, in fact he had been _encouraged_ to do so.  It would make what he had to do next much easier.  Without further preamble, the Asset swallowed down the official’s erection to the root.  

For a moment, Kapustin stiffened, his hand lashing out to grab a handful of his hair for support.  <“Oh- sweet mother – Yermolai-!”> but his hips bucked and his words soon distorted into guttural, indecipherable exclamations as the Asset got to work.  The seduction was over; the Asset did not care if Kapustin had hoped for this to go on longer or to incorporate more foreplay.  This was the most direct path to getting what he needed and moving on with the mission with the short time table he had been afforded.  

There was nothing quite like the firm weight of a cock in his mouth, dripping and leaking over his tongue with the ineffable taste of the rush to come.  The mission objective that had led his actions this far was quickly subsumed by his supernatural appetite.  Bracing his hands on Kapustin’s hips, he bobbed his head, tapping into the growing well of energy building with each squeezing pull.  For a blissful moment, his world narrowed down to a sharp pinpoint of desire as he coaxed his quarry to orgasm.  The meaty cock began to twitch in his mouth, his testicles drawing up and his abdominal muscles seizing as the Asset felt the synchronous echo in his own body.  

The sublime burst of taste and euphoria nearly caught him by surprise despite having sensed its impending arrival.  This felt innate, natural, a thing he had done a thousand times before yet could never retain.  

_More_. 

He didn’t want it to stop.  He didn’t want to go back to his existence outside this moment.  He wasn’t supposed to want, but this was more than that, it was a need, a primal hunger.  

And besides, he was allowed this.  

He locked in on the source of energy and _pulled_.  The overwhelming wash of blissful vitality permeated every cell in his body and suspended him in the sensation like a fly trapped in amber.  

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over.  The source of energy had exhausted, leaving him reeling and buzzing with an exuberant smile stretching his face.  

Kapustin, however, was dead to the world in a sleep borne of utter exhaustion.  

He allowed himself a full three minutes to collect himself and savor the last effervescent tingles running through his body.  Then, he got back to work. Twisting the heel of his left shoe counter-clockwise, he revealed the small compartment with a tiny syringe.  Uncapping it, he slid the thin needle into the back of Kapustin’s upper thigh and depressed the plunger.  Now, nothing would wake him shy being tossed into a snowdrift.  

He recapped the needle, securing it into a pocket in his trousers.  Then, the Asset stripped Kapustin of his jacket, sliding it over his own shoulders and securing it closed around his broad chest as best he could.  Fortunately, Kapustin was no small man.  

A quick survey of the bedroom revealed no less than 14 objects that would suit the mission parameters.  He selected an ostentatious silver and jade letter opener that had been left on a pile of documents at a small writing desk, picking it up with his gloved left hand.  It would already have Kapustin’s prints on it, and something about the way the thing looked more expensive than most cars rankled him.  

Besides, given the official’s proclivities, it seemed appropriate.  

He stole out of the room, making his way back towards the door to the adjoining suite.   Kapustin’s room key was still in his jacket pocket, and a moment later he swung the door open to reveal a darkened room and the even breathing of sleep.

Leaving the key in the door, he silently padded across the rug to approach the figure in the bed.  His keen night vision pierced the haze of darkness to make out the features of a woman probably ten years Kapustin’s junior, a sleeping mask over her eyes and a glass of water with a bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand.  Ebony curls splayed out over the pillow as her chest rose and fell evenly with the peace of sleep. Despite her obscured face, she was a match for the second personnel file in the mission dossier: Rozalina Kapustin, the official’s wife.

He hesitated only a moment before the mission pulled his strings.  There was a point to this – his master said so.  It was not his business to know the details.  He buried the blunt knife into her with a reverse-strike to the left side of her neck, simulating a right-handed attack.  The hot spray of arterial blood splattered across the suit jacket.  

Whatever she’d taken to get to sleep, or sleep through Kapustin’s nocturnal activities, wasn’t enough to keep her under.  She sat bolt upright, scrabbling at her neck and the mask on her face, but she was bleeding out quick with the blow to her carotid artery.  With a wrenching twist, the Asset removed the blade, catastrophically damaging the artery in the process.

He backed away, watching as her struggling grew progressively erratic, the strength already sapping from her limbs.  The Asset opened his left hand, letting the letter opener fall onto the rug before turning to leave her.  She’d never make it out of the bedroom and would bleed out in minutes.  No one would hear her gurgling screams behind the insulated walls of the lavish suite.  

The Asset made short work of replacing Kapustin’s jacket back around his shoulders and gathered up the pile of letters from his desk, tucking them into the pockets of his own suit.   
  
Finally, he departed by way of the large bay window, effortlessly scaling the side of the darkened building the short distance to the roof.  From there, he made his way to the stair access, and to the escort point to rendezvous with Sokolov.  

Mission accomplished. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to [Angelic Sociopath ](https://angelicsociopath.tumblr.com/)for these amazing two pieces of Gift Art!!!  
> Both of them are absolutely beautiful and wonderfully atmospheric - thank you SO   
> MUCH!!!
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	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What follows are excerpts of Hydra memos, requisitions, and other official (or unofficial) documentation summarizing key points of the Winter Soldier’s tenure at Hydra.

 

File Date:  20 January, 1962

Approved by: LTG Aleksander Lukin,  Armed Forces of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics;  Head of Soviet Operations

1.0 Summary   
The first weapons test of the Asset’s capabilities post-Winter Soldier procedure was a resounding success.  After its deploy into the civilian location of the Hotel Astoria in Leningrad, it was able to flawlessly accomplish a mission with a complex series of instructions.   

After a successful infiltration into the Hotel Astoria in Leningrad, Asset successfully engaged the target, Sergei Kapustin, an official of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, and proceeded to isolate the target in his room.  Following a successful feeding, leaving evidence of a homosexual affair, the Asset incapacitated the target and moved on to the second stage of the mission: the execution of Kapustin’s wife with an in situ improvised weapon.  All evidence left on scene framed Sergei Kapustin as the responsible party.  Finally, the Asset departed the location undetected through a pre-planned extraction escort with Captain Sokolov.  Following the Asset’s return to base, it went through a thorough debriefing before it was secured once more into cryo-storage.

Not only was it able to execute 100% of the mission parameters without compromising HYDRA’s presence, but it did so with finesse, talent, and intuition unsurpassed by other operatives. 

Exhibit A (attached):  Completion Mission Report: 19 January, 1962  
  
___________________________________________  
  
 

<Purchase Requisition  Form  
Requisitioner Info: Capt. Fredek Sokolov  
Date: 30 August, 1965  
Item: Filtration Mask (unit 45.1b7)  
  
Request: Special order 45.1b7 filtration  mask to be integrated as part of the  Asset’s standard combat operation gear.   
  
While the Asset’s  pheromones are beneficial even outside of espionage operations, including combat situations to distract enemy combatants, the Asset’s performance may be compromised by its uninhibited use (See incident report included with Mission Report: August 29 1965 re:Operation Sovnarhozy).  The addition of the unit would prevent the need for on-site discipline, fueling, and subsequent maintenance upon return to base in the event of a similar incident.  As an added benefit, in the event that the Asset’s guise is compromised, the half-mask will further serve to obscure recognizable facial features.  >  
  
 

___________________________________________  
  
<5 February, 1968  
  
General Lukin,

It was a pleasure to finally meet with you after our long correspondence and pay a visit to your facilities.  I had hoped to have been able to take such a tour much sooner, but surely you understand the conditional circumstances that had been leveraged by my employers. 

While I had been skeptical of your sole administration of my Project Diabolus’s successful subject considering our disagreements in the past, I was pleased to see the tangible results of your supervision.  Truly, it is the success I had envisioned for the project and it was quite rewarding to finally see it in action.  It is both elegant and brutally effective in its proficiency: as exotic and otherworldly as it is deadly.  I expect it will be a valuable instrument in the orchestra of HYDRA’s New World Order.  

The integration of Fenhoff’s Winter Soldier project with Project Diabolus truly is a beautiful melding of magic and science, and a wonderful example of the vast potential power from the synthesis of HYDRA’s many, disparate projects.  I look forward to joint endeavors in the future and maintaining HYDRA like a well-oiled machine –  with the whole so much greater than the sum of its parts.

While the offer of  direct collaboration on this project is appreciated, and I am pleased that my old projects are still being put to good use by our Soviet cousins, the focus of my work has graduated on to more forward-thinking projects.  However, I still expect to continue to be forwarded full reports on its performance.  Also, given the new freedoms that my position has afforded, I intend on making subsequent visits to your facility to monitor the supervision of my demon.  Of course, given our joint ventures, I also anticipate being extended the authority to call upon its particular set of skills if circumstances demand.  
  
 

Regards,  
Arnim Zola>

  
*  
<Hydra Soviet Division Siberian Base HQ  
3 March, 1977  
  
From the Desk of  Lieutenant General Aleksander Lukin

Re: Promotion of  Officer Karpov  
  
To Whom It May Concern:  
  
I am formally recommending that Lieutenant Vasily Karpov be promoted to primary handler of the Asset under the provisions of HYDRA Circular number 425 (1948).  Following the untimely demise of Major Fredek Sokolov, Captain Karpov has taken initiative in the field, shown expertise in handling and directing the Asset, and has been an invaluable aide on site. He has proven his unquestionable loyalty to HYDRA many times over since I personally oversaw his indoctrination as a young man.

I believe that our organization will benefit from his increased responsibility and field direction.

Feel free to reach  out if you have any questions.  
  
Hail Hydra,  
  
<signature>  
  
LTG Aleksander Lukin>

___________________________________________

  
< **Excerpt: Personal Journal of Colonel Vasily Karpov dated 12 June, 1981**

Since the passing of my mentor, Lieutenant General Lukin, the responsibility of the control and maintenance of the Winter Soldier has been bequeathed to me.  The archaic rituals used to bond the Asset to a commander were unsettlingly arcane, yet the results cannot be minimized.  

I have made a few amendments to its script of standing orders that I predict will reduce the times it seems to appear directionless or confused, which I have noted in its instruction manual.  It will maintain its guise whenever possible, to be maintained and fueled like any powerful weapon in HYDRA’s arsenal.  I have worked with the technicians and scientists to formulate a strict diet of nutrient supplements and nourishment that have been tailored to its metabolism that can be delivered intravenously in addition to its periodic inconvenient - albeit necessitated - dietary requirement.  

Part of the Winter Soldier’s power is the force of its reputation – a ghost story or boogie man to even upper level HYDRA operatives.  By minimizing its exposure, it lends strength to its notoriety.  By letting its nature fall to rumor rather than fact, its legend will grow.  

Furthermore, it never did sit well with me the way it called General Lukin by the moniker “ master ” in today’s modern society. We must prove ourselves to be leaders on the world stage, and such backwards trappings are symptomatic of the ways we must leave behind.  HYDRA has no place for sentimentality, only order and results.

\- Colonel Vasily Karpov >

___________________________________________

Mission Report: 16 December, 1991

Approved by: Col. Vasily Karpov,  Armed Forces of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics  
Head of the Soviet Division

1.SUMMARY   
_Operation New Dawn_ was successful in every respect and all mission objectives were effectively accomplished.  The Asset successfully and succinctly eliminated the high-value target, neutralized only witness, recovered the package, and left no evidence behind including retrieval of the security footage from the scene.   
  
The asset completed the mission via a side-impact with the target vehicle delivered by the asset’s armored fist, sending it off the road.  The vehicle subsequently collided with a tree off road to create the window the Asset used to complete the mission.  Target Howard Stark was eliminated by blunt force trauma to the head.  Only witness, Mrs. Maria Stark, was neutralized via asphyxiation.   
  
The successful recovery of security footage and removal of all trace evidence will ultimately conclude the deaths as accidental due to Mr. Stark’s history of drunken behavior. Connections with the US Branch of HYDRA spearheaded by Obadiah Stane will reinforce the narrative.  
  
_Operation New Dawn’s_ ultimate mission was the recovery of five (5) samples of what is believed to be the successful reproduction of Abraham Erskine’s original super soldier serum.  These serums will be used to continue research into the expansion of the Winter Soldier program by injecting five selected Hydra operatives.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
  
12.0 PROJECTIONS  
  
The official dissolution of the USSR is imminent, permanently ending HYDRA’s operations in the Soviet Union.  The Winder Soldier’s missions to seed chaos throughout Eastern Europe and the Soviet bloc could not be measured by a more tremendous success.  The end of the USSR’s iron grip on the region provides unlimited opportunities for HYDRA in the region moving forward.

Starting immediately, Col. Karpov  will be overseeing the sale of a number of antiquated weapons in HYDRA’s arsenal to our allies in other nations.  Our new arsenal of New Dawn Soldiers will be better suited to our goals moving forward.  
  
The original Winter Soldier will be transferred to the American branch so it can aid the destabilization of the AMR region.  Representatives will be meeting in the next few months to elect a new handler for the Asset and oversee the transferal ritual.>

  
___________________________________________  
  
 

<Alexander Pierce,  
  
After much consideration of the applicants’ offers and rapport with Soviet HYDRA asset designation: Winter Soldier, I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected as its new proprietor.  The offer you made was competitive with the other applicants, and will certainly aide our cause. Curiously, the deciding factor was the Asset’s intriguing responsiveness to your introduction.  Such a promising introduction leads me to believe that you will serve as an effective handler. 

Return to our facility on 6 June (the date is non-negotiable, as circumstances must be precise for the transferal.)  I will sever my connection with it and you will be guided through its binding ritual.  You will also be provided with its cryogenic chamber, a Fenhoff Chair, and instructions on its continued maintenance.  

Mr. Pierce, I do expect consideration if future circumstances necessitate us to require its usage once more.  Furthermore, while we have negotiated for its transferal of ownership, I will be maintaining possession of the tome that contains the details of its nature and creation to ensure a mutually beneficial partnership moving forward.  In the event that you need to transfer possession of the Asset, you need merely contact myself or my associates to do so.  

I look forward to working with you as we travel this new road together; we have made great strides in this lifetime and I am certain that we will stand side by side as HYDRA finally unites humanity under a single rule.  

-Col. Vasily Karpov >

___________________________________________

 

Mission Report:  April 17, 2009

Approved by:  Alexander Pierce  
Secretary of SHIELD  
Undersecretary, World Security Council  
  
1.0 Summary  
The Asset was successfully deployed to Odessa, Ukraine in order to prevent the defection of Firuzeh Hirbod, who had been serving HYDRA in the role of a nuclear engineer in Iran.  Her attempted escape was facilitated by SHIELD operative designation: Black Widow.  

The Asset  performed admirably, exhibiting performance consistent with expectations: unparalleled skill and long-distance accuracy as well as the ability to make unprompted tactical decisions on the fly.   
  
 

The Asset  successfully completed the mission of eliminating the target, Firuzeh Hirbod.  The introduction of Black Widow was unanticipated and she was unable to be neutralized.   
  
Let it be noted: Dr. Hirbod was a former member of HYDRA, in possession of sensitive information that could have compromised future projects.  Let her death serve to stand as a warning to others in the organization that HYDRA executes a zero tolerance policy on treason. 

___________________________________________

To: Undisclosed Recipients  
From: agpalpha@outoftheshadows.net

May 24, 2013  
  
After much consideration, the decision has been made to indefinitely sunset the Asset designated Winter Soldier.  Over the course of the last seven missions, beginning with 7/14/2012, the Asset has demonstrated increasingly unstable behavior, confusion, and otherwise disconcerting malfunctions.  Technician Dr. Bruce Baker has charted a statistical correlation to its increased episodes over time.   
  
 

Please see the following incident reports (attached):

-missionreport07142012.pdf:  Mission Report: 7/14/2012: Asset unable to repeat back the mission objectives after briefing 

-missionreport09212012.pdf: Mission Report: 9/21/2012: Helmand, Afghanistan, during mission the Asset dropped to its knees and grabbed its chest with a scream, disabled its guise, broke cover, and attempted to take flight. STRIKE (Alpha Team) apprehend the Asset: when questioned in debriefing, it reported that its master had been injured and it had to go help.  Handler Alexander Pierce was later confirmed to be unharmed. 

-missionreport12032012.pdf: Mission Report: 12/03/2012: the Asset began to scream immediately upon defrosting, assaulting the lead technician.

-missionreport03202013.pdf:  Mission Report: 03/20/2013: Upon return to headquarters for maintenance and debriefing, a small children’s toy [Captain America action figure] was located among its arsenal.  When questioned, the Asset could not explain why it had taken it. 

Despite having been active in the planning of Phase 2, Col. Karpov has not responded to any requests for access to the ritual tome.  At this time, the Asset is not being decommissioned permanently, though moving forward it will only be activated if absolutely necessary.  Requests for use will only be considered from Level 8 or above. 

Thank you for your compliance.  

-Secretary Alexander Pierce

___________________________________________  
  
_Except from the personal journal of Alexander Pierce dated April 1, 2014_  
  
As the imminent launch of Project Insight looms, I have decided to deploy the Winter Soldier for one final mission.  We need to ready the public for a new leadership by HYDRA, and that necessitates a demonstration of the types of threats that HYDRA can protect its citizens from.  Stirring up public anxiety over enhanced threats on domestic soil will aid citizens in understanding the benefits of Insight.  

The Winter Soldier has been growing erratic and outgrown its usefulness to Hydra; following the launch of Insight it will have been rendered completely obsolete.  However, it can serve a purpose one final time.  It will be sent to eliminate a series of targets, beginning with Director Nicholas J. Fury, who has been growing uncomfortably close to determining the true purpose of Insight.  While he has been earmarked by Zola’s algorithm, he could potentially prevent its launch, and I cannot take that risk.

The timeline is moving rapidly, and a number of top-level SHIELD operatives, including Captain Rogers, need to be fielded, distracted, and ultimately eliminated.  The Winter Soldier is uniquely qualified to combat an enhanced operative in the field, and one of the few individuals who can confront him without compromising our public image following the takeover.  

In the event that the Winter Soldier is successful in eliminating Captain Rogers, Insight will terminate the Asset, giving the world the justified death of his killer.  If the Asset is unsuccessful, and Insight finishes the job, then his death can still be pinned on the Winter Soldier.  

There have been rumors of the Winter Soldier’s existence in the intelligence community for decades, but its tie to HYDRA has been a well-protected secret. Let it come out of the shadows to be seen for the demon it is, and serve as a distraction and scapegoat to allow us to prove what HYRDA can do with the power of Insight now that its method of enforcement is no longer required.  

It is regretful that it has come to this, but while the Winter Soldier has been useful to HYRDA, it is a relic of the cold war and has served its purpose.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd HAPPY HALLOWEEN you all! This fic is now OFFICIALLY COMPLETE! *Throws handfulls of confetti*
> 
> Thanks to all of you that followed along, kudo'd, commented, and shared our enthusiasm for this project!
> 
> STAY TUNED for first a synopsis of this fic posted in a couple weeks for those who decided to skip the HTP installment of the series, and also serve as a recap. THEN, we will begin working on Part 3: Lifting You Up! We've already got a long outline of the plans and are taking a few weeks off as we work out some final details but should begin writing it soon!


End file.
